


The Blood of Nirn

by FluffyPaws



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Death, Disappointing Vanus Galerion or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Necromancy, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Gen, Graphic Violence, High Rock, Innuendo, M/M, Queer Characters, Racism, Skyrim sequel, Substance Abuse, can you tell I played ESO, offscreen canoodling, oh god i'm sorry this took four years, protags who changed their names, the many dads of the Dragonborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 95,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPaws/pseuds/FluffyPaws
Summary: After escaping Skyrim and the Thalmor, and spending three months on the Sea of Ghosts, the Dragonborn and his family sail into High Rock. They seek new lives in peaceful obscurity. But the Thalmor are observant, and word of their travels has spread far beyond the Reach, accompanied by the beating of a Drum. Sequel to The Penitent.
Relationships: Original Altmer Character/Count Verandis Ravenwatch, Original Falmer Charcter/Original Breton Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	1. The Pirate Queen's Gambit

Night had fallen over the Sea of Ghosts. A thin fog, one of a faint red tint by the light of the Jode, hung over the water. It was just enough to disguise the ship of Estivel, Pirate Queen of the Abecean, from the watchful eyes on the coast of Rivenspire. Or, that was true at the distance they kept.

Branhucar of Markarth huddled under her bear-skin cloak by the cabin door and watched Estivel and the Dragonborn discuss the coming night. And it was mostly watching; the two stood near the mast and spoke in low voices. Maybe that was fair. After all, Estivel was an experienced pirate and her grandson had been destined for Alinor's navy once.

The Gray Fox of all people being left out of the discussion was a little weird. He was Estivel's son and a thief in his own right, and such a mer had to know at least something about sneaky boat business. And she thought to ask why he held back, but then, she wondered how to ask.

And, how was she to address him, now that she thought about it? At first, Kyndoril had merely been the father of her friend the Dragonborn. But then things had changed, after leaving Riften. The Dragonborn had become something more to her. And months after they'd left Skyrim for good, the two had approached Kyndoril with their request.

“What should I call you now, anyway?” Branhucar asked him.

Kyndoril shrugged under his woolen blanket. “Whatever you wish. I would address my dear wife's mother as 'honored mother', but she is old and a little scary. Now, with you, it's still like being a priest.”

“Why's that?”

“I get to call you my child.”

Branhucar wasn't sure whether to feel touched or embarrassed by the joke. She settled on a strange mixture of both, while Kyndoril went on.

“But as I said. I won't hold you to formalities. Your parents had many names for me. Creative names. In time, you may find them suitable.”

“What were they?”

“Tall one, dumbass, spindly imbecile....”

“You seem all right to me.”

“I was once a young mer. Much like my son.” Kyndoril nodded to the Dragonborn, who threw an arm out in visible argument with Estivel. The pirate, for her part, stood stiff as Branhucar had grown to expect from older elves, and did not raise her voice, but the warning of magicka on the air was loud and clear. The Dragonborn lowered his arm and shuffled a bit where he stood.

“Aw, Kyn....”

“Hm?”

“The other Kyn.”

“My mistake.”

“What's this about, anyway?” Branhucar lowered her voice more, in case Estivel's hearing was as sharp as her magic. “I thought Kyn was in agreement with all this.”

“Well, we're still going to High Rock,” Kyndoril whispered. “But there is a small problem. This ship is known to the Dominion, and His Majesty's navy is a force to be feared. We cannot approach Northpoint so brashly, even in this fog, and especially not at night. It would be like walking up to a bear.”

“So what happens now?”

“We're to take an enchanted boat to shore. A small thing, of Nordic design. I know, it sounds like a blatant contrivance, and that's because it is.”

Branhucar imagined being miles out to sea, with only a small bit of wood between them and the gaping void of the freezing ocean and hundreds of slaughterfish. But a voice in the back of her mind quietly mocked her fear. She ignored it. “Is that even _safe_?”

“Kyndriel worries as well. But we Altmer know the seas, and Altmeri mages love their enchanted boats.”

As Branhucar continued to worry anyway, she fingered the hemp cord of her necklace – the only thing save her cloak that she would take from Skyrim to High Rock, for none of them could be conspicuous with magic armor or fine weapons for this to work. Armor had been exchanged for simple Nord garb; elven blades for captured northern steel. And she wondered what her mother would have said about their plans. She posed the question to Kyndoril. But the mer gave a quiet laugh.

“She would have egged you on. Or, she would have in her youth. Age did temper her.”

“I guess so. But, wait, you met her when she was old?” Branhucar watched as Kyndoril straightened up and averted his eyes. “What, in Markarth? When did you go to Markarth?”

“A story for another time, I think. Look, they're done conferring!”

Branhucar mentally cursed the mer and watched as Kyndriel and Estivel crossed the deck back to them. The Dragonborn looked sheepish, green eyes cast to the sea as Estivel spoke.

“Everything is ready. I doubt the Thalmor will recognize Galerion's implementation of the Psijic maritime navigational magics, but if we're to confound Angalion's navy you must not leave any trace when you land. You will need to dispel the enchantment. Branhucar.”

She blinked, and wondered what on earth an ancient elven mage would want from her. “Yes?”

“Kyndriel tells me you're good at breaking spells. I leave it in your hands.”

Branhucar felt herself pale a little. It had been months since she'd even thought of magic or having to cast it. Skyrim might as well have been traveled by a different witch, for all her confidence. But arguing with Estivel was like standing in a blizzard.

“Of course! That... that boat'll be a scrap of... normal boat. By the time I'm done with it. Yep.”

“It'll be easier than a dragon's magic, I can assure you.”

“Thank you.”

Estivel turned to her son. “This is where we part ways again. As I once trusted you with Luxurene, I trust you now with our family.”

Kyndoril nodded. “By my father's grave, I will not fail them.”

“Don't fuck it up.”

The Gray Fox made a strange noise, and Kyndriel snorted. “I will vouch for him. He's good at the whole fathering thing.”

“Yes. I can see that. A mer's quality shows through their children. And as for you, Dragonborn.”

Kyndriel's eyes widened. “Honored grandmother?”

“I am glad to call you my grandson. Now for gods' sakes, put on a cloak. I'm freezing just looking at you.”

The Dragonborn crossed his arms, which he'd left bare in the cold all day, as usual. “And you all look too warm to me. But, if it makes you feel better.”

“Do not linger in Rivenspire. It is a land of malice and prone to Marukhati fanaticism.”

“What happened to the rest of High Rock, then?”

“All the Iliac Bay from Daggerfall to Evermore is rife with political squabbles that would embarrass Summerset. Keep your ears open and your heads down, and you might just make it there.”

“I'll remember it. We are indebted to you, grandmother. If there is ever anything we can do–”

Estivel patted him on the shoulder. “Survive.”

And with that, she led them toward the port side, where a boat waited suspended on davits. A faint hum of magicka emanated from its planks. Kyndriel whispered something in Altmeris, straightened his belt, and climbed in. Then he turned and extended a hand.

“Watch your step, Bran.”

“Easy for all of you, with your legs,” Branhucar said, sizing up the gap between the rail and ship and the boat. Then she reached for his hand. “Oh, Malacath's tusk, here goes.”

The boat stayed perfectly stable as she stepped in and took her seat across from Kyndriel. Kyndoril joined them, blanket and all.

With one last farewell, Estivel lowered their enchanted boat into the waters of the Sea of Ghosts. Branhucar had not had time to adjust to the motion of the waves before the enchantment took effect. The boat turned and began to glide over the waters, smoother than any cart on a flat road.

Enchanted boat or not, they clearly had some time before they reached High Rock. Branhucar was not surprised when Kyndoril asked if either of them knew a good song for the occasion.

“Nothing for sailing,” Branhucar said.

But Kyndriel cleared his throat.

Branhucar sat stunned. His words were not in any language she could understand, but she didn't need to. She'd never heard him _sing_ before. And there he sat, his voice soft yet clear as Aldmeri crystal.

Kyndoril, on the other hand, caught something that she couldn't.

“Um, son, that one might be better suited for a tavern.”

Kyndriel's voice gave way to a laugh. “Oh, fine then.”

–

Northpoint sat perched on a cliff above the sea. Further to the west, the city overflowed from the castle and stretched down the hill, where the docks accommodated Imperial and Dominion vessels alike. For obvious reasons, Estivel's boat did not ferry them there, but strayed to the cove beneath the city and ran itself into rock and sand.

Kyndoril cast a weak light for them, and his son was first out of the boat. Then he frowned, and his eyes fell on the shore. His hand moved to rest on the hilt of the steel broadsword that Estivel had given him.

“There are strange grooves in the sand,” he said. “Don't tell me there are lamias this far north.”

“Lamias? I don't think so,” Kyndoril said. “They like it warm.”

Branhucar climbed out next, and once they'd removed all their things from the boat, she knelt down to examine it. True to Estivel's word, the magic woven into the boat was quite easy to get a grasp around. It was simple, at least in principle. Take a boat, and with a destination in mind, implant one's will for it to follow a course.

Curious, she tried to follow it backwards. The magicka was very tangibly Estivel's. And in her mind's eye, she saw the pirate at her desk, tracing a thin finger over a route further to the west, small beads of glass representing known Aldmeri vessels. She studied the map. There were markings across the western sea, stretching south to islands that Branhucar could only assume were Alinor....

Estivel's amused voice rang in her mind. “Clever girl. Now focus.”

Branhucar flinched, then found the magicka of the boat again and dispelled it. The boat collapsed into a pile of wet and broken wood. No traces of the Pirate Queen of the Abecean remained.

Then she realized the two elves were watching her.

“So, this is going to sound weird, but I think I kind of understand this Psijic boat magic thing now,” she said. “But why's the boat in pieces?”

“Enchantments aren't normal spells,” said Kyndoril. “They become an integral part of whatever they're cast upon. To lift an enchantment without destroying its object would take years of mastery.”

“Then how come that didn't happen to those dragon priest masks?”

Kyndriel shrugged. “A dragon made them. They don't follow the rules. But we should keep moving. Grandmother told me how to get into Northpoint without attracting attention.”

He paused for a couple of seconds, focusing on something in his hand. And at once, a soft light illuminated his white hair, his deep, warm brown complexion, the aurora green of his eyes. Kyndriel grinned and moved his hand, and the light fell on the opening of a tunnel.

“This way.”

Branhucar followed him, Kyndoril close behind. And she strained her ears to catch sounds of anything waiting ahead or creeping up behind.

The tunnel rose and twisted higher above the sea level, reinforced by a skeleton of wood beams. They soon came to old barrels, stacks of crates.

“Nobody cast a flame,” Kyndriel hissed, a note of fear in his voice. “Some of these are kindlepitch barrels. A single spark and we're dead.”

“Son? What is this place?” Kyndoril asked him.

“An old smugglers' tunnel. Estivel said it would take us into the city. But I didn't expect kindlepitch here.”

“Ah. I see.”

Minutes passed, and so did the last of the terrible explosion-prone barrels. As the tunnel widened, their magical light fell on new things. Branhucar stared at the smooth wood and gleaming steel reinforcements of crates.

“It looks like we weren't the first to rediscover this place,” Kyndoril said.

And sure enough, the rock and dirt walls of the cave soon became smooth bricks of stone, the floor boards of wood. The tunnel ended, or so it seemed. But, as they searched for any sign of a way forward, a metallic clunk and the sound of grating stone filled Branhucar's ears. Kyndoril stood in a corner, watching as a section of bricks slid into the wall. As she walked closer, she saw grooves where the wall had been, and gears and metal supports.

“So... these smugglers,” she said. “You think they made that, or just used it?”

“Oh, if they were dedicated enough, who knows,” said Kyndriel.

They stepped into a small room, filled with barrels of ale and wine, with two exits. First, a door that Kyndriel tried and struggled against for a minute. Kyndoril attempted to open the lock with magic, but there was nothing to open – only firm resistance on the other side. The second possible exit was up a ladder had been bolted to the floor and wall, leading to a trapdoor.

Kyndriel volunteered to go first again. He climbed, found the trapdoor unlocked, and pushed it open. Branhucar followed him and he helped her up into... a small armory. One full of weapons of gleaming moonstone and steel. Swords and shields too bright and polished, some too Aldmeri, to have been abandoned for decades.

“Kyn,” she whispered, “I think someone else is already here.”

“There shouldn't have been,” he breathed. “Stendarr help us.”

Kyndoril climbed the ladder, shut the trapdoor behind him, took in the room, and froze. “Oh. Shit. Put those lights out, children, and stay close to me.”

His eyes took on a faint golden glow, and a gentle wave of magicka swept over. He cast his gaze at shapes that they couldn't see, somewhere beyond the walls. Suddenly, he stopped casting. His eyes dimmed.

“Keep your weapons sheathed, follow my lead.”

“What? What are you planning?” Kyndriel whispered.

“Trust me, please!”

Branhucar's ear finally heard footsteps, many pairs of boots, on wooden floors somewhere in front of them. A door flew open and firelight flooded the room. The silhouette of a man in leather guard's armor appeared in the doorway.

“Intruders! Intruders in the armory!”

And then taller figures in eagle helms appeared. They'd drawn swords. Branhucar hoped her daedric companion was watching, just in case Kyndoril's next idea went wrong.

Before Kyndriel could move, his father threw out an arm to stop him. Then, to the Thalmor guards, he cried out in Altmeris. The guards paused.

“Darre,” Kyndoril repeated. “Nu shanta va sepredia.”

The Thalmor barked an order, and Branhucar, watching the others drop to the floor, realized she was supposed to kneel too. Those nearest sheathed their swords, thank the gods. But there were more words; the Thalmor demanded something, and Kyndoril continued pleading with them. Every few seconds, the Dragonborn opened his mouth as if to object, then shut it again. As the Thalmor drew closer, Kyndoril looked at Branhucar, then spoke again.

“Beratu ne malauta Altmeris.”

The Thalmor made an angry interjection, then switched to common Tamrielic. “What's wrong? Not going to embarrass yourself in front of the human?”

“I try not to make a habit of it,” Kyndoril said. “But, as I have said, we don't mean any harm. This is all a misunderstanding. We never meant to trespass.”

“Tell it to the magistrate.”


	2. Aldmeri Justice

“You know, for a renowned sneak, I thought you'd be good at keeping us out of prison.”

The three of them sat in a dungeon cell somewhere beneath the city of Northpoint. Branhucar watched the two elves, particularly Kyndoril to see if she could gauge his reaction to his son's words. The mer's eyes were bright in the dark again, but the emotion in them was unreadable.

“I am a simple mer with a few talents,” Kyndoril said, gathering a strange glow to his hands. He released it, and the light cloaked the walls, the iron door, and even the bars of its little window before disappearing in a blink. “Such as muffling this place. We were unlucky.”

An understatement, thought Branhucar. Running from the Thalmor and spending months at sea, only to run into the Thalmor when they set foot on land was a special kind of unlucky, like falling into a pile of manure trying to step around it.

“So, they felt that spell, huh?” she asked him.

Kyndoril's eyes drifted away from her. “Anyone could, but Altmer of Summerset learn to control their magicka and interpret it, like a facial expression or a tone of voice. And this time, I did not think to account for an observant Thalmor guard when I felt for life. I might as well have shouted to announce us.”

Kyndriel sighed and leaned back against the cold stone. “You couldn't have just made us invisible or something?”

“An illusion like that,” said Kyndoril, “works best when nobody knows you're there. The Thalmor know better than to forget an intruder they can't see. You were the justiciar, once. What would have happened?”

Kyndriel, from the sound of his voice, had remembered something grim. “It would have looked like an ambush. They would have cast shock magic wide to break the illusion. To capture by force.”

“And neither you nor Branhucar should be fighting without armor.”

But Branhucar shrugged. “I've got mage armor.”

Kyndriel shook his head. “Come on, you remember your lessons. Mage armor can't stop everything.”

“And I guess you can't exactly Shout armor.”

“Well, I could, but I don't know how it would turn out.”

“You could do it, and I could try punching you.”

“Punching a dragon? Your hand would break!”

“I could get a long stick instead.”

“Could be useful, whenever we....” Kyndriel turned his head back to his father. “Fine, you've got a point. But you can just break us out of jail now, right?”

“You heard my tale of the Oblivion Crisis,” Kyndoril said. “Breaking out of jail always goes wrong somehow. But take heart. Prison is where all new adventures begin.”

At first, Branhucar thought this ridiculous. And so did Kyndriel, judging from the exasperated noise he made. But, then, she thought....

“You know,” she said, “if I had any say last year, I wouldn't have been there at all. But jail is how I ran into you.”

Kyndriel shook his head. “And we're lucky that ended happily. This isn't then, this isn't Ondolemar we're dealing with. I'm not going to risk everything now.”

“Then don't,” Kyndoril said. “We have a date with a magistrate. A bit of carefully tailored honesty, a little groveling, and all will be well. If not? Well, you were the justiciar. What would the Thalmor do with trespassers?”

“Honestly? Ondolemar intimidated half of them and charmed the rest into forgetting why they even bothered.”

“Well. He was always good at that.”

“The bastard in Chorrol... just had us... flog them.”

The smile disappeared from Kyndoril face. “So I imagined.”

“We never let them succumb to their wounds. At the time, I thought it was mercy, not that Arandur intended any. So... I hope you've got a plan if the magistrate doesn't like us.”

“What, besides weeping? Yes. But I sorely hope it does not come to it. So, listen carefully. I have a plan for our magistrate. A story, to be more precise....”

–

The grating of metal hinges and the slamming of a door announced the morning. Branhucar rubbed her ears, where the sound still rang, and cast the smallest light spell she could manage. Kyndriel, yawning, passed her share of breakfast to her – some dry bread and salted pork. Kyndoril muttered something about it being 'not the worst' .

Suddenly, the dim light from the door was blocked by a face framed in an Aldmeri helmet. “No magic in there!”

Branhucar flinched and banished the tiny light, and the guard walked away. Once the sound of footsteps had faded, Kyndriel let out an annoyed breath. “That was one thing I forgot to mention. Thalmor guards look at magic the same as a lockpick or a weapon. Don't let them catch you with it.”

“Best you forget what the Thalmor do and don't like,” Kyndoril whispered, muffling their cell again. “It's one thing to speak Altmeris. It's another entirely to act like you understand Alinoran custom when you are not supposed to be of Alinor. Remember?”

Branhucar looked at him. “You really think this magistrate of yours is going to believe you?”

“High Elves are emotional creatures,” Kyndoril said, a small grin appearing on his face. “The key is, we _need_ the magistrate to help us. All we have to do is demonstrate that. Convincingly.”

–

Branhucar had some trouble keeping up when the time came. While her husband and father-in-law usually slowed their pace so she could walk comfortably, the Thalmor guards of Northpoint led them up stairs and through corridors at a stride that demanded she all but jog. Bound hands made that a challenge in which a misstep nearly led to her slipping and cracking something.

At least there was no silver. The guards had not bothered with cold-iron of any sort. But, she supposed, the Thalmor of Northpoint were more than prepared to deal with magic. What was a petty Breton mage with tiny magic lights?

And speaking of Bretons, as they entered some great hall lit by tall windows and magicka lamps, it seemed humans made up a small portion of the guard. They did not wear the elven metal of the Thalmor enforcers, but the leather and light steel plate one would expect from humans. And yet they followed the Altmeri Thalmor around, speaking to them in hushed tones, taking notes, receiving instructions....

Questions struck her mind like a hammer against iron. Estivel had given them dire warning about the Dominion presence in High Rock. How much power did the Empire still have? Had some upheaval taken place while they were trudging across Skyrim, or perhaps out to sea? Or was this what the Thalmor actually looked like? Had Skyrim been some kind of farce?

Another of the Thalmor ranks was a new sight entirely. A Khajiit taller than an Altmer in Dominion glass armor stood at the far end of the hall, addressing a group of lesser ranking men and mer. The guard at her back shoved her shoulder to face forward again.

Soon they were in a new room, where an Altmer in familiar black, gilded robes waited from his chair behind a heavy polished desk, watching them intently. The door snapped shut behind them, and the noise of the building vanished.

“Are _these_ our trespassers?” asked the magistrate. “They don't look like much.”

Branhucar glanced up as Kyndoril wrung his hands and spoke, voice cracking in feigned fear. “Good sir, please, we can explain.”

Not even the tone he'd used when reenacting his encounters with the Empire or Silabaene. She bit her cheek and looked at the other wall.

“You will explain when I invite you to.”

“I thought that's why we were here, sir?” Kyndriel said in mock innocence.

The magistrate ignored him. “What are your names?”

“Kyndriel.”

“Branhucar.”

The magistrate gave them a strange look.

“I know, sir,” Kyndriel shrugged. “The men thought it was too womanly for me too, and the women accused Bran here of being... well... adventurous, so to speak.”

Branhucar fidgeted and tried not to blush; Kyndriel wasn't entirely wrong.

“Said she should go by a proper lady Breton name instead.”

“That's your concern, not mine,” said magistrate, desperate to move on. “You. You still haven't given me your name.”

“Kyndoril of Dawnstar.”

Branhucar worried for a moment that they would recognize the name and call the lie immediately. But the magistrate finished making a note and looked up again.

“You were found trespassing in a Thalmor barracks in the late hours of last night, the Eleventh day of First Seed in the Year Two-Hundred and Two of the Fourth Era. This is a severe offense under Dominion law, punishable by pain, incarceration, and servitude. Do you understand?”

“I'm confused,” said Bran. “I know the Thalmor are in the Empire because of the treaty, but I thought the only Dominion law was–”

“The crime occurred within a Dominion building. You answer to us. Is that clear?”

“Oh. Um. Yes. But–”

“I see you're all dying to explain. I'll permit it now. One at a time.”

And that was Kyndoril's signal to continue the lie.

“We're from Skyrim,” said the former High Kinlord of Luxurene. “My family were sailors. They settled in Dawnstar centuries ago for the fishing. Eventually I met a woman, and we had a son. That's him, there. His poor mother died so it was up to me to raise him and teach him elvish like my parents taught me.”

“This has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

“But sir! It has everything to do with it!” Kyndoril exclaimed. “After the war, the Nords started treating us like dirt. Then just last year out of nowhere Ulfric Stormcloak started going on about elves, and then.... Oh, I... I can't....”

While Kyndoril lifted his bound hands to his face, Kyndriel leaned over. “It's all right. I'll tell them the rest.” And then he turned back to the magistrate, whose eyes betrayed just a hint of interest. “Those Stormcloak bastards took over Dawnstar. Said there would be _changes_ in the Pale. First they started harassing the elders and treating the workers like dogs, then the next thing we knew they were breaking into our house! The Nords sold us to their sea raiders as... as thralls! Made us do all their back-breaking work, humiliated my father.... They wouldn't even let me near my own wife!”

Somehow, Kyndriel threw his arms around her – a feat with bound hands. Branhucar reached up and attempted to pat him on the arm. It ended up being a sort of feeble sideways punch instead.

“The Breton,” said the magistrate. Somewhere to their right, Branhucar heard a faint noise of disgust.

“They tried to keep us all apart,” Kyndriel went on. “But we got away. We stole a boat, it crashed on the rocks, and we went into the cove. Believe me, we didn't want anything to do with your armory!”

“Did it occur to you at any time that you could have turned and left, or followed the shore to a more appropriate way into Northpoint?”

“With Nord raiders behind us? Are you _insane_?”

“Son!” Kyndoril yelped. “Sir, please, forgive his outburst. We've had no rest, no food, nowhere to go. The Nords took everything from us and–”

The magistrate waved a dismissive hand. “I've heard enough from you. Justiciar, tell me what you witnessed.”

Branhucar had not recognized them, but at least one of the guards accompanying them had been present on the last night. The guard spoke.

“One of the lot cast a broad spell of detection before we found them. They surrendered immediately. We found evidence of piracy under the barracks, but nothing to suggest they came from a Nord ship other than their rags and shoddy swords.”

The magistrate's eyes swept back over them. “Well, it seems our guests aren't telling us something. But, pirates? No. Barbarian though they claim to be, these cannot be pirates. We're more likely dealing with simple thieves.”

“Thieves?” said Kyndoril. “By Mara! Never!”

“Detection is not a spell that is cast lightly. But a thief would have reason enough.”

Branhucar watched as Kyndoril turned to look at her and Kyndriel. Their eyes met, and he shook his head.

“We're not thieves,” said Kyndoril. “But... that was my spell. When we realized we were trespassing it was too late. But we never would have–”

“Your defense amounts to nothing more than a convenient confession.”

“We had no intention of–”

“Your trespass remains. And in time, we'll see if the rest of your story holds.”

Kyndoril fell silent.

“For the crime of trespass, I sentence you to a term of penitence. You will serve the barracks.”

“How so?” Kyndoril asked.

“In any capacity they see fit.”

“How long?” Kyndriel whispered.

“A year.”

“A year!”

“Shall we make it ten?”

Branhucar felt eyes on her, and realized that her anger was showing, and her wolf was encouraging it. She didn't care anymore. “Bring it, I've got a hundred _tusking_–”

Kyndriel nudged her. “_Drem_.”

There was no force in his Voice, but the impact was astounding. Her jaw unclenched and her blood cooled, and the magistrate's face softened, while Kyndriel turned his head away and cleared his throat.

“A year,” the magistrate repeated. “I think that will be enough to correct your ways.”


	3. Penitence

It occurred to Branhucar later in the day that Kyndriel had used the Voice to silence her and end their meeting with the Thalmor magistrate, and that she was not pleased to have her mind manipulated with magic, even if said magic was the gift of Auri-El and it had probably saved their asses. However, there was no chance to mention it when the Thalmor guards lurked nearby and could not be allowed to notice that one of their prisoners was Dragonborn.

Besides, there was a more important task at hand: milling around the very beach where they had landed, even though the Thalmor had already taken the time to investigate while they were in jail. Branhucar stood off to the side and rubbed her chilled arms while Kyndriel spoke to the guards.

“Yes, it was a way out north,” Kyndriel said. “Heading east, I think?”

The guard said something her ears couldn't catch.

“Well wouldn't you, if you were stuck with pirates?”

They should have stayed with Estivel, Branhucar thought, if this was all High Rock had to offer them.

“I don't suppose you can tell me _how_ you managed to dash your boat in these waters,” said one of the justiciars.

“No, I'm not sure,” said Kyndriel. “The boat was in pieces and we were all soaked. We just dried off and looked for shelter.”

“And that brings us to your secret tunnel.”

“Our tunnel? It connects to your building.”

“Shut it, you.” The justiciar turned to Branhucar and Kyndoril. “You're going in first.”

“Will you allow our young friend to cast a simple light?” Kyndoril asked them. “It was darker than night in there.”

“A light, and that's it.”

Branhucar nodded and summoned a candlelight.

The justiciars watched with distrustful looks for a second. Then one of them jabbed a finger at the mouth of the tunnel. “Get moving!”

She began walking, with the feeling that she had somehow insulted them. As the roar of the ocean was replaced with the echoes of footsteps on rock, she glanced over her shoulder and whispered to Kyndoril, “Is something wrong with my magic?”

“What? Why do you ask?”

The justiciars could probably hear. She chose her words carefully. “Does it... offend?”

“Ah. Has anyone ever suggested that your magic is a bit loud?” Kyndoril replied. “Remind me what stars you were born under.”

“The Apprentice, I think?”

“Ah, there you go. You carry a gift, but your spell casting is like a thunderclap.”

Branhucar suddenly longed for the staff that the Summerset Shadows had given her once. The staff that had helped her channel her magic into something more precise and controlled. Maybe someday she would meet Estivel again and she could ask if she still had it lying around.

“How do I fix it?”

“Fix is a harsh word, and... I cannot say. Control of magical expression is second nature to Altmer. How would one explain breathing to one who has lived decades without it?”

That explained the clear magicka radiating from irate elves. Ondolemar and Estivel had demonstrated it to great effect. Clearly she had done the same, if only through emotion rather than intention.

The idea of magical expression reminded her of the forge, of fire, of waves of heat. If magicka was that fire, and fires could cool.... She imagined the 'heat' ending at her fingertips.

The tunnel went black as her light dispelled, and the justiciars scoffed somewhere behind her. With a quick apology for the others, she cast again, and yelled as she blinded them all with a white flash.

–

An hour later, the spots had finally stopped flashing when she blinked her eyes. Which was useful, since the justiciars put the three of them to work moving contraband out of the secret cellar. As the Thalmor would not simply collect the goods at the beach, and they had reinforced the locks and wards on the lower door, the only way to go was up the ladder, with whatever bundles of goods the Thalmor trusted them to carry up to the waiting guards.

Each and every item was noted: leather and fur armor and swords of Nord fashion in some crates, a literal _ton_ of gleaming steel unlike any Branhucar had ever laid eyes on, some crimson ore with bright red flecks....

A pale ghost, drenched in red from a gaping wound in their middle, fell up into the endless skies, shedding heart's blood across an earth already stained with so much death. The souls of the fallen, abandoned to the mercy of the gods, cried up to the figure, but it could not answer, only sink into a grave of stars, stars, stars....

Branhucar watched the ceiling spin and heard elven groans.

She and every mer in the room had collapsed. A pair of Bretons in guard's armor had hurried in and were nailing the crate of red ore shut. The day's work was called to an end and new justiciars were brought in to seal and guard the room.

–

Kyndriel and his father were shaken to an extent that she had never seen before. Each elf who laid eyes on the red ore had seen terrible visions, and elves rushing to help other elves had led to a chain reaction of illness. The captain and a battlemage wanted answers, from the testimony of the Breton squires to the memories of the stricken elves. That extended to their prisoners, and in the late evening they arrived unexpected in their tiny, dingy room demanding explanation. The healer who accompanied them was kinder and offered a sweet ale to calm their nerves.

“I saw... I think I died,” said Kyndriel, turning his cup in circles. “I lost my eye and then a giant snake swallowed me whole. But then it hadn't, and I was alive, but the damn snake just... kept happening?”

Kyndoril's vision was simpler. “A fox tore my throat out.”

The battlemage waited for him to continue, and her golden eyes narrowed when he fell silent. “And then?”

“I started to die, but instead of dying, I was horrified for a very long time.”

The captain and battlemage left, and Branhucar winced as the healer held a tiny light to her eyes. “Well, I see no reason to suspect a concussion in any of you. Stendarr keep you and guard your minds tonight.”

The healer left and the door shut. The click of a lock followed. When Branhucar turned her head again, she found the eyes of the other two on her.

“Um....”

“Well?” asked Kyndriel. “They didn't ask you anything.”

“That was horrible. Beyond horrible,” Branhucar whispered.

“What happened? You're the only human that passed out.”

She remembered the hole torn in the figure, the skies, the dead. And she recounted her dream for them.

“Oh, of course the human has visions of Lorkhan,” said Kyndriel.

“Not so hasty,” said Kyndoril. “It was I who saw the Fox guise, an Atmoran omen if there was one. But tell me, what should he look like to a Breton? I'm curious.”

Kyndriel blinked, then scratched his chin where white stubble had started to grow. “A cause of bad harvests, right?”

Branhucar recalled the things she heard from the elder Reachmen. “Sheor blights crops and animals. All things starve until he comes to claim them.”

“Well that's grim. Anything about the Dawn in your Reach legends?”

“I don't know. Something about revenge?”

In the corner of her eye, Kyndoril tilted his head back and downed his whole cup of ale. “Well...! That was all... bad. I'm... I am... going to sleep. And I'm not Rhylus so good luck... keeping _that_ out of your dreams tonight. Good...! Night.”

Kyndoril rolled into his bed and passed out. As soon as the snoring began, his son picked up his cup and sniffed it. “Oh, _that_ is not just ale. The old mer must have brought something else in here. Don't ask me!” he added, as Branhucar opened her mouth. “I'm not going to think about it.”

–

The Thalmor gave them one night to recover from their harrowing encounter with the red ore, then put Branhucar back to work, in that chamber with a handful of Breton guardsmen, while the others were assigned different tasks somewhere above. _They_ were spared from the crated horror.

“You're not an elf, you'll be fine,” the other Bretons insisted.

The moons drifted above. The sun took its leave. Great figures argued with a world-shaking furor while those who lived cowered behind a vast shield. Someone called for help.

The memory faded, and the wooden ceiling came into view.

“Yes, the father was a Bosmer,” Kyndoril sighed. “She resembles her mother, but if you notice her shorter stature and examine the ears more closely....”

“And notice that she passed out like us elves,” said Kyndriel. “I mean, I would think that would give it away. Ah, look who's back in the Mundus.”

“Oh, good,” said a third voice, one she recognized as the healer. “Easy, don't try to move yet. Can you tell us who the King of Shornhelm is?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Hey, Bran,” said Kyndriel. “Who's the Jarl of Windhelm?”

“That godsdamned _son of a_–”

“Yep, she's okay.”

“Close enough,” said the healer. Branhucar rolled over and groped for her blankets, but the healer wasn't done with her. “What did you see in your nightmares?”

“Sheor died,” Branhucar said, head throbbing. “Moons happened. Gods were angry. Let me sleep.”

“You must remain awake until I'm certain you are well. Stay with us.”

She felt a strange magicka, a sensation of prickling, a subtle buzzing in her skull. After several moments, the pain in her head began to subside.

“Yes, the captain will need to hear of this, I'm afraid. And for your sake, do not think your Bosmeri father will endear you to anyone here.”

The healer left them. Branhucar waited for the sound of his shoes to fade.

“Not as if a human mother helped with the Nords,” she muttered.

“Well. That was Skyrim,” said Kyndriel. The wooden chair by her bedside creaked. “Welcome to the 'Thalmor Hate My Mum' Club for Bastard Children.”

“That's a thing?”

“If it's any consolation, they look down on Bosmer almost as much as humans. They even have some old tales of Auri-El despising them for taking human wives.”

“So what's worse, being a Breton or being a half-elven bastard?”

“Yes.”

Branhucar rolled over to look at him. From his voice, she expected a smug look, but found something more akin to sympathy.

“Though it might be easier if you shared your father's looks,” he went on, “just as my mother resembled her father.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” said Kyndoril. “Ignore the ears for a moment, and our Bran is one hairstyle away from mimicking her father.”

“I'm not putting my hair like that. I don't even know how I could get it to stay.”

“Magic. Elven hair magic. Now, I'm sorry to abandon you here, but my son and I will be called away soon if we don't report to the officers ourselves.”

Kyndriel sighed. “Oh, by Lorkhan's.... Fine. Just try not to worry about Lorkhan while we're out. The Thalmor shouldn't give you any more trouble with him either.”

They left, and the door closed. Bran stared at the ceiling and tried to focus on it. The wood. Anything but the roaring and wailing still echoing in her mind. But in the silence, it was all that she could hear.

–

Without the threat of evil ore, life in the Thalmor barracks of Northpoint grew dull and slow. There was little that they were needed for. The barracks had run itself well enough without a trio of prisoners at their beck and call. In spite of that, there were dishes and clothes to wash, floors to sweep, messages to deliver from one corner of the building to another. Some of the cockier fools they served interrupted them to demand beer or ale.

Then there was the waiting. The idling. The lack of anything to pass the time. The barracks was their work and their jail. There was no venturing outside. And lingering near an open window was viewed with suspicion. As days turned to weeks, they marked the passage of time by guard chatter and noise that drifted in.

One morning they heard singing: verses on Kynareth and Y'ffre, warm winds, and blossoms.

“It must be Flower Day,” said Kyndoril. “Spring has come at last to High Rock.”

“Flower Day?” Branhucar repeated. “Never heard of it.”

“Does Skyrim even have holidays?”

“You were playing the priest,” Kyndriel whispered. “You should know.”

Kyndoril laughed. “What is any day but another day to bestow Mara's benevolence on the good people, my child? But... really. Does Markarth even have holidays?”

“No idea. Sometimes Ghorza cooked a huge dinner and there was mead. And then she'd get drunk off her ass and tell me to be stronger than the whole world, 'cause it sure wasn't going to be easy on me.”

“Well, the spirit of Malacath is better than nothing.”

Ghorza had never brought up worship of Malacath, exactly. And being a Daedric Prince, he was counter to the Aedra that her new elven family prayed to. But the idea of an extra god, one that might have looked like an Orc, watching her back as she idled and toiled in the Thalmor barracks had some comfort to it.

Besides, Kyndriel had definitely said something about him being Trinimac. As long as she never _said_ Malacath's name among the Thalmor, there was no harm in offering a casual prayer to him. Them? No, him. Malacath was just a Trinimac that had a rough time at some point.

More holidays passed. Between the Bretons and Redguards of the city, there had to be a dozen, dedicated to the spring, the harvests, the arts, the honor of the ancestors. There were solemn days in remembrance of a dead king's ghost and a Second Era plague.

Then came levity.

The Breton guard, out of the public eye, fell into laughter and petty mischief. The Thalmor were less amused; for them, Jester's Day meant accepting some amount of disrespect from the city's entertainers, and dealing with fools whose pranks amounted to vandalism and public endangerment.

By late afternoon, the officers were in an uproar. _Somebody_ had rearranged the kitchens, the dining hall, the sitting rooms, and the officer's quarters.

Branhucar found herself escorted back to the room she shared with the others. After a few minutes, the door opened and Kyndriel stepped in as well, green eyes narrowed in fear and doubt. The door closed behind him.

“What did you do?” he whispered.

“Nothing! Honest! I thought that might have been you.”

“Are you mad? Like I'm going to take my chances pissing off the Thalmor!” And then he turned his head, searching their small room. “And... where is my father?”

“Well they're probably bringing him back next. Right?”

But they didn't. Kyndriel paced and fretted for a while, and Branhucar went back to her pastime of counting the boards in the ceiling. After several countings, after Kyndriel had given up and sat at their little table to wait, after the barracks started to quiet, the door opened again.

In stepped Kyndoril. He said nothing, but waited for the Thalmor to leave them. Bands of red welts marked his swollen hands and arms. And he met their shocked faces with a worn smile.

“It's a holiday,” he said. “They stopped at twenty.”

And after a moment's breath, he flexed his hands and a warm light wrapped around them like gloves, stretching up to his elbows. The tension in his face eased.

“That was you?” Branhucar asked.

“Yes. The captain didn't appreciate finding stories about Argonian maids instead of his files. Don't worry. They know the mischief was mine alone.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I thought the good Thalmor of Northpoint needed a distraction. What better day than today?”

Kyndriel looked up. “Father, that was.... They could have.... _Why_?”

Kyndoril did not speak. He reached under his pillow, removed a small cloth pouch, and tossed it to his son. It clinked with the metal of coin as it landed.


	4. Erokii

“Come on, you layabouts. Your comfortable days here are over.”

Branhucar said nothing as the Thalmor justiciar, hand clamped over her shoulder, marched her and Kyndriel through the hall. Other Bretons stepped out of their way, eyes averted, knowing better than to question the Dominion. In a way, she wished they would watch, say anything, do something for them. But the fact that they wouldn't was an advantage. The Breton guards of Northpoint would not even think of the morning's incident until another elf brought it up. And by then, they would be gone.

The justiciar led them to a door. The hall flooded with golden morning light for just a moment; the trio stepped through and the justiciar quickly shut it again, then hurried them off to the west, out of the castle town, and into the throngs of townsfolk, merchants, sailors at the port.

When they had gone far enough, the justiciar turned and walked them behind a wooden building at the docks. Out of sight, he unfastened and tore off his robe, then stuffed it into a barrel of trash.

That left Kyndoril in a suit of unadorned boiled leather, with an alarming number of stolen things strapped to his back and sides.

“One for you!” He shoved a Breton sword into Branhucar's hands, then passed another to Kyndriel. “And one for you.”

“Oh, good,” said Kyndriel. “Now I can just fall on this when the Thalmor come to collect us. Save them the trouble. You wouldn't happen to have more armor, would you?”

“Gods, how many layers would _you_ wear?” said Kyndoril, stuffing his things into a bag. With most of the evidence stored away and a sword and dagger at either hip, he looked more sellsword than thief.

When Branhucar had finished tying her sword, Kyndoril led them back onto the street.

“I don't get it,” Branhucar said. “When did you get all this?”

“Jester's Day.”

“Why not sooner?”

“Mara's fortune and good will to the patient, my daughter. Now, who wants a real breakfast?”

“Wait, we can't stop _now_!” Kyndriel hissed. “As soon as they notice we left they'll–”

“That is exactly why we're stopping. You will see.”

And without waiting for more protests, he led them off to the side, into a three-story brick building marked with a sign as the Sloshed Druegh Inn. The din of music and a dozen separate conversations filled her ears and masked the sound of Kyndriel muttering something about terrible ideas.

Kyndoril ignored him and found the innkeeper. “Food and beds for three weary souls, please. Is that crab I smell?”

The innkeeper, a graying Breton, nodded. “That's our special. Mudcrab, stewed vegetables, and a pint of beer. Nine septims for the three of you.”

While Kyndoril paid for their meal, Branhucar looked up, then followed Kyndriel's gaze across the room. Finding a free table wouldn't be too hard. And the room lacked any uniform, Imperial, Thalmor, or otherwise.

“What's this about?” Kyndriel asked. He pointed to something on the counter on Kyndoril's other side.

The innkeeper frowned. “New, are you? Well you're free to take one, sir elf.”

Kyndriel picked up a leaflet, glanced over it without expression, folded it carefully, and tucked it into a pocket without a word. Branhucar waited, but he met her eyes and offered a small nod – a promise to explain later.

As soon as they had their table, he passed her the paper and watched as she unfolded it. A Dominion eagle had been stamped at the top. Beneath was some sort of proclamation that did not make sense at first glance.

_Citizens of Northpoint!_

_The Order of the Gryphon seeks brave and intelligent souls to maintain peace and order in Rivenspire. All service shall be fully compensated._

_Those wishing to enlist should present themselves to the Thalmor offices at the Hall of Justice._

She looked at Kyndriel. “What on Nirn is a gryphon?”

“Well, imagine a cat,” he said. “Now imagine that it's got the head, wings, feet, and feathers of a bird, and it can grow longer and taller than a horse.”

“That's.... Sorry, what?”

“I know. I said the same thing when I learned Skyrim had giant cats with swords for teeth.”

“So, have you ever seen one a gryphon?”

Kyndriel shook his head. “Oh, gods. No. Alinor has them, but I've only seen gryphons in old books. And good thing too, because we elves are easy pickings for a giant cat-bird.”

“How were you not all eaten by now?”

“Simple. Gryphons think fishing and scavenging are easier. What you should be asking is how in Oblivion we survived indriks.”

“What?”

“Sacred deer with giant magical horns and feathers. They're absolutely gorgeous, or so I've heard. But they know all kinds of ancient magic, they're extremely territorial, and if you manage to slay one you'll probably be cursed. And! It'll still reincarnate and go back to doing indrik things sooner or later.”

The idea of a deer being remotely scary was not a new concept to Branhucar. Other Reachmen had spoken of Hircine after all, and she knew what an ordinary Druadach elk could do if provoked. “Okay, how did you all even survive?”

“Warding stones by the roadside,” he said. “How humans made it this far without them is a mystery.”

Branhucar returned her focus to the flier. “And what's this about,” she whispered.

“I... honestly don't know,” Kyndriel lowered his voice. “The last I checked, they only did that in Dominion lands.”

“So... you think High Rock...?”

“Well... no. But I'll let you in on a secret. It's likely something is wrong and they're stretched thin. Now they're bribing the populace to handle the lesser jobs, and anyone who takes the bait will be paid in scrip. But... it's still a risk to bring the locals in, especially in staunch Imperial lands. This would never have flown in Chorrol.”

They were both saved from having to think of his time in Chorrol by Kyndoril returning with a tray laden with bowls and mugs.

–

When their morning meal ended, Kyndoril ushered them upstairs. To rest, he told them, as they climbed to the next floor. To peace and more importantly, privacy that they had been deprived of for so long. He opened the door to a modest room, and Branhucar took the opportunity to fall into one of the beds.

Then sunlight filled the room. Kyndoril had opened the window shutters and now peered below.

“Lots of cover here,” he said. “Plenty of buildings. Can't even see the castle. Good.”

“So we're safe?” asked Branhucar.

“I don't like this,” Kyndriel said. “An inn is the first place they'll look for us.”

“Exactly,” said his father. “So! Who wants to go first?”

Branhucar looked at Kyndriel, while her father-by-Mara waved to the open window as if it were a door.

“Did you steal a rope from the barracks, or should we start tying sheets,” Kyndriel said.

“We don't need rope. Observe!”

Kyndoril released a spell, then hopped where he stood, only to knock his head on the Breton-standard wooden ceiling. But the sound he made on hitting the floor was so soft that he might have weighed as much a down pillow.

“It... is simple Alteration,” said Kyndoril as he picked himself up and summoned light to his hands. He began to massage his scalp. “If gravity is an anchor to Nirn that creates velocity that in turn causes stronger impact, we need only change how strongly gravity affects us to make a two-story fall harmless. That is Slowfall as explained by Vanus. So, who's going first?”

Branhucar rolled back off the bed and picked up the bag she had dropped. “Fuck it, I'll go.”

Kyndoril stood aside as she approached the window. Her brain screamed at her as she leaned forward to see how far she'd have to drop.

“Hold on, let me cast,” said Kyndoril. “There. You may jump now. I'll lift the spell when you're safely on the ground.”

At first, she wasn't sure anything had happened, but she felt lighter than ever as she pulled herself up, still shouldering her bag, and prepared to jump. This was a time for courage, she told herself. The mer behind her was a competent mage. There was no reason not to trust him.

And he was also a great healer, she reassured herself.

Her back foot caught the ledge. The next several seconds were a futile struggle to right herself in midair, as the ground drifted closer. She landed sideways in the cold grass, confused but unharmed.

Kyndriel was next, twisting and clawing at the air like an inept cat. He did not have more luck in his landing, but picked himself up without a word and brushed his tunic and trousers clean.

Only Kyndoril managed to fall gracefully and maintain his footing.

“And... where to now?” Branhucar asked.

“West,” said Kyndoril.

She looked west, and despite being unable to see past the buildings, felt something within her recoil.

“Why west?”

“Because it is not east.”

“The Thalmor will search the city,” explained Kyndriel. “They think us soft. Weak. They'll send someone to every inn and church and the homes of lonely old women, looking for newly turned-up unfortunates like us. But, what lies west?”

–

The answer to his question was endless mountain and sea. Cold waves washed over a rocky beach dotted with eroding marble stonework. Sea birds flapped out of their way and watched them from higher perches. A mudcrab volunteered itself for dinner by snapping at their shins.

“This is what is left of Erokii,” said Kyndoril. “A city built at the behest of the Ayleid king Anumaril, spanning from this shore up into the mountains. But as with all things ordered by Anumaril, it has since been cursed.”

“Why was it cursed?” Branhucar asked.

“Well. From what I read, there was a love affair, mixed with no small amount of political drama and war.... And of course Mephala got involved. That nosy creature can't keep her pedipalps out of anyone's business.”

“Wait, who's Mephala?”

“A very complicated and frankly obscene Daedric Prince. But you don't need to worry here. She feeds on mortal insecurity and this place is long-abandoned.”

“So is it the same curse as now?” Branhucar asked. “Because something about this feels....”

“It does feel wrong,” Kyndoril said. “There is sorrow here. But it is not Mephala.”

The wolf growled a warning and bristled at the mountain. “It's too familiar. I feel like I should know it, but I... don't. I think I hate it.”

Kyndoril said nothing.

“What?”

“I'm trying to decide how much holy water we're going to need for you. No, not really. But, I'm starting to wonder. Is the name Madanach familiar to you?”

There was a vague memory of yelling at a man somewhere under Markarth. A memory that was not her own, and she did not know why she carried it or what it meant. But it invoked bitter hatred. Madanach's very name was an old wound, a painful one with a thick scar and nerves that had never healed.

She wasn't sure if she said anything or if she growled in offense, or if the elf merely sensed her feelings. Kyndoril's eyes widened. “Well. I see that you've inherited much more than your mother's lycanthropy. Your friend has memories older than you.”

“_Why_ does he matter?”

“He was another Reach mage. A prideful fool who thought he could stand against Ulfric Stormcloak when he attacked Markarth, shortly before you were born. He called upon Molag Bal and summoned daedra to defend the city. Your mother was furious with him.”

And there was her answer, the wolf told her.

“Why are we here if Molag Bal is here?” Branhucar asked.

“Because Molag Bal is not here, not anymore. I would know it. Erokii holds no people, and therefore nobody for him to torment. And yet....”

The air chilled. Branhucar looked up into the cold wind to see gray clouds drifting south, gathering over the mountains, over distant gleaming walls and spires. The seas, too, had begun to churn and batter the rocky shore.

Kyndriel approached, a pair of slaughtered mudcrabs in either hand.

“Let's find shelter,” he said. “It's been ages since I had to go swimming in a gale and I don't really feel like doing it again.”

–

The only shelter was, of course, what remained of Erokii. They climbed the hills and found stairs, stone walkways and tunneling chambers through the mountainside. Unlike the many ruins of Skyrim, there were no traces of life or death, no corpses waiting to awaken and ambush them, no monsters or even animals sheltering within the halls. The lack of cobwebs and rats was more unnerving than she would have expected.

They chose an out of the way chamber, high windows open to the outside. It was a good place for Kyndriel to arrange firewood and whisper a word to light it, to roast the crabs and warm up bread.

As their meal cooked, Kyndoril began to walk the room, muttering prayers in Aldmeris. Discomfort slowly lifted, replaced by a feeling of peace and safety that she had not known in months.

Once, they had been below deck on Estivel's ship, wrapped in blankets and feasting on conjured vegetables and oranges and fish, entertaining each other with stories of their pasts and tales they'd heard all over Tamriel. They had been safe, untouchable – every ghost, every daedric threat, every Stormcloak or Thalmor officer nothing more than a bad memory – for a few happy months.

“Bran?”

She looked up at Kyndriel.

“You look troubled.”

“Why did we come to High Rock?” she asked.

“To be anywhere but Skyrim, wasn't it? To put the Thalmor behind us.” He paused, and after a minute he spoke again. “Well, that didn't go according to plan now, did it?”

Kyndoril startled them with a bitter laugh.

“What's so funny?”

“Forgive me,” Kyndoril said. “I have only shaken their pursuit twice. And it has always forced me to take dire measures. To become the Gray Fox.”

“Wait, you told us how you left Anvil, after... you got the cowl,” said Kyndriel. “When exactly did the Thalmor find you, and... how the hell were we on Auridon at all?”

“Patience, son. I still have not told you how I met Sillawe, and our dear Branhucar has been asking me how I reunited with her parents.”

“So tell us! We've got all the time we need out here.”

Kyndoril looked between them, then shrugged and sat by the fire. “Very well. What was the last thing I told you? That I'd stolen Maborel's horse?”

“Yeah,” said Branhucar. “So, what happened next?”

Kyndoril gave a tired smile. “Well. The life of a thief is not a glamorous one, despite the many legends told of the Gray Fox....”

–

Daedra lurked, the Ayleid ruins stretched endlessly into the earth, eyes of the gods watched. Something roared. And there was Madanach, watching, waiting for blood to spill, while a younger elven king struggled with his cage, to protect someone, something that did not need saving, not when it could–

Branhucar awoke with a wolfish snarl, just in time to see Kyndoril plunge glowing steel through the heart of a figure. Of someone gray, emaciated and in tattered rags, arms marked with dry and gaping wounds that neither bled nor healed. A pale blue fire faded from their eyes as they passed.

Kyndriel stirred and groped for his sword. “What is.... What's going on?!”

“Something has descended,” Kyndoril said. “Rise and keep hold of your weapons. And follow me.”

The feeling of Erokii, of the mountain, had changed. A creeping malice hung in the air and the skies seemed too dim, even for the cloud cover. Thunder without lightning rumbled over the spires.

Kyndoril led them higher into the city, under a magelight that bathed the area in a sunny gold. The walking corpses that advanced on them recoiled at its warmth and fell quickly to steel.

And shock magic. It had been so long since she had even tried, but there was no better time to practice than when surrounded by the dead. The rusted steel plate that some of them wore made them easy targets. And it satisfied the restless wolf, that she could defend herself, at least for a while. The urge to shift faded.

“Father, remind me when you last fought anything,” said Kyndriel, as another ambush of walking corpses fell still. “Anything at all.”

“Crossing Skyrim to find you,” said Kyndoril. “I had the misfortune of meeting a band of Stormcloaks.”

“Stormcloaks? What happened?”

“I am here because they are in Sovngarde.”

Kyndriel hesitated. Maybe he wasn't sure how to respond to his father, after his tales of pacifism and regrets, saying such a thing. Or maybe he was too busy eyeing another walking corpse. “And this new magic?”

“I'll tell you later. We're getting closer to the source of all of these soul-shriven.”

“Soul-shriven?!”

“Can't you feel it? Molag Bal's will is close. These poor creatures are his victims.”

“I thought you said he wasn't here anymore!” said Branhucar.

“I wasn't lying.”

“Please tell me you're not leading us to Molag Bal,” Kyndriel groaned.

“No, if he were here I would lead you in the other direction, with tremendous haste.”

The mountain's peak was close, across a causeway, up even more steps. A natural tower of stone loomed before them. Beyond an open Ayleid door, the mountain had been hollowed to create a chamber large enough to remind her of Understone Keep. Carved stone ramps winding up the inside wall led higher still. And as the air cooled and her wolf insisted on being let out, she tamped down her fear and followed the Kyndoril forward, into battle with another waiting group of the undead.

As they approached the tower's summit, a new discovery added to their worries. A fresh corpse of a Breton lay in their path, in a puddle of congealing gore. There wasn't much to identify them by, and the leather armor was of common fashion.

“Stendarr protect this soul,” Kyndoril said, stooping to collect a dropped silver longsword. “And guide this blade.”

They moved on, up what felt like endless slope, and with a lot of puffing and some complaining reached the top. A jagged hole in the rock formed a silhouette of teeth against the sky. A marble column stood in the center of the room, over an altar decorated with red crystal. But most troubling about the scene was the large, blue-white light that hovered near the altar, throwing the chamber into flickering shadow.

Kyndoril extended his arm to stop his son from passing him.

“That,” he said, “is a tear in the Mundus, leading straight to Oblivion. We don't go near those rashly.”

“Says the mer who did exactly that three times,” said Kyndriel.

“Three? I've lost count.”

“So what do we do?” asked Branhucar. “There isn't a sigil stone or anything....” But realization struck as she remembered Kyndoril's past. “You're not thinking of going in there! This isn't Dagon, this is Bal we're dealing with!”

“You're right. Stand back. Auri-El willing, we will be done with this in only a moment.”

Kyndoril began to cast something. But it was not his magicka that Branhucar felt surrounding them. It was a freezing, suffocating grip.


	5. Coldharbour

Branhucar woke to darkness and cold. Every wall and the floor were cut stone, carved by hands that had not existed for eras. Straw and thin woven cloth made a rough bed. Embers struggled to live on damp, moldy firewood.

Another day had come to the warrens. Another day of enduring the smell and grime, or stepping out into the light and risking the attention of the Nords.

But there was something important beyond the warrens. Her feet carried her past the dying fire, to the dwarven doors that led out into the city.

There were the guards, in their leather, their ring mail, their green livery. One near the door thrust a shovel at her: “Get to work, scum.”

That... wasn't right. She had another job in Markarth. Ghorza would wonder where she'd been, and then why she'd been back in the warrens. Ghorza was the reason she didn't have to be in the warrens. The reason she didn't have to sneak and steal.

Branhucar stepped back, in what she hoped would be the direction of the forge. “The blacksmith is expecting me.”

But no, reminded a voice. That wasn't true either. There was a memory of the Orc pulling her into a strong hug. Asking of her travels. Wishing her well on the road ahead. She had left Markarth behind long ago.

“What makes you think the blacksmith needs a worm like you?”

Anger rose again, followed by a rush of awareness. The thing before her wasn't one of Markarth's guard, despite the tangible cruelty. Those blue eyes under the steel helm did not belong to a _Nord_.

“You're not real.”

The illusion broke. But a very real dremora reached down for her – she caught his gauntlet and threw every ounce of magicka into lightning and did not let up until he fell. The daedra did not move again. And she stared at the corpse.

“Oh gods,” she gasped. “I... killed someone.”

_Good_, said the wolf.

Branhucar leaned down and braced against her knees, and tried to catch her breath.“What do you mean... good? They were... they were a... living daedra!”

_Is it 'good' to roll over and let them tear your throat out?_

“N...no.”

_If you want to survive this, you need to show them your teeth! Now look. See what dwells here._

Branhucar took her eyes off the dead dremora. The room seemed to be made of rock, murky as a black soul gem. Crudely wrought iron and ebony made up stairs, spiked fence and railing, and so many chains and cages. Kyndriel and Kyndoril were missing. But soul-shriven and ghosts stood passive, eyes fixed on the floors, the walls, at distant things only they could see.

Why weren't they attacking? Or rallying? Had any of them seen her face the dremora?

_Coldharbour steals the will to live from its prey_, said the wolf. _The agony is greater than any mortal soul could withstand. They become this. You must leave here and find the others._

Branhucar nodded, then reached to grab something the dremora had dropped. A crude iron maul with thick, solid spikes. “They're going to regret that plate armor.”

_Good! Teach them the meaning of regret!_

–

Branhucar was grateful that the wolf stayed back and offered advice, encouragement, instead of fangs and claws. If she could walk Coldharbour and fight her own battles, she could face anything back on Nirn. And if she could stay human... she could avoid having to scrounge for clothes in the pits of Oblivion.

“Why do you shred my clothes, anyway?”

_Would you rather have me absorb them into my flesh and risk having thread and fiber in your skin when you regain your body?_

“I mean you're already changing my skeleton and muscles and things on the inside and I don't complain that you might leave me with a dog snout. And then there was that time with my leg.”

_That was one time._

She thought back to Riften. It finally made sense why Kyndoril understood Glenmoril shape-shifting. There had been Cyrodiil and Markarth to teach him.

“So you're the same wolf that followed my mother around.”

_I have been your family's curse since the age of elves._

“That's such a long time. I mean, if the first had a bunch of kids, and they had even more kids.... Are there more of me? Hundreds of people like me? Dealing with a bunch of you?”

_The Green is one tree and many trees. There is only one Green-Sap. All are Green-Sap._

“And... what exactly are you?”

_The Green._

“But one of the Green.”

_Yes._

“So you're not really a curse anymore.”

_Are you cursed, or are you treated as cursed?_

It was hard to say. Branhucar switched topics. “So, you knew Kyndoril.”

_Yes._

“Will you tell me why you hated.... You know, the prince in charge of this realm?”

The wolf growled.

“Okay. But... in the future, if you can hold onto my clothes and put them back when we're done wolfing around, can you... please maybe do that?”

_The fabric of the Mundus is unstable and you ask me to dress you. Fine._

–

It seemed that the daedra did not bother patrolling or seeking anyone in those halls. Maybe they thought that their control over interlopers was so certain they didn't need to. That was, Branhucar suspected, why she heard Kyndriel before anyone else saw her.

He had not shaken the daedra. He hunched by a wall, covering his face and head with his arms as he pleaded with one of the dremora.

Branhucar gripped her maul and crept closer. And her stomach clenched; it wasn't the dremora that had him frightened out of his wits.

“No, no, please! I am a servant of Alinor.... I have only ever served the high king!”

The dremora played the role of the Thalmor, apparently. “You are a traitor and a disgrace to your kind. And your worthless comrades will share your fate!”

“They haven't done anything! Please, don't hurt them!”

That was more than enough. Branhucar tapped on the dremora's armor with the butt of her maul. Then swung. It was a little quicker than lightning, but... no, to her horror, it took a second blow to end his suffering.

“Oh by Malacath! Please be dead now!”

The dremora did not respond in any way, to words or to being nudged with her toe. And when she was sure that she wouldn't end up with a spiked dagger in her back, she went to check on the Dragonborn.

Kyndriel had begun to straighten up, to look around the chamber. Then his wide eyes settled on her.

“Bran?”

She nodded. “It's me, Kyn. I'm here now.”

“Where are we?”

“Coldharbour.”

“Oh gods. What was I doing? I... I shouldn't.... I was.... I thought we were all....”

Branhucar shifted her maul so she could have a free hand to pat him on the arm. “It's done now. It was only a trick. Just a dirty, rotten trick.”

“Gods. I thought this place was Chorrol.”

“I'm sorry, Kyn. I thought I was in Markarth.”

“We should never have come here. But... how did you escape?” He eyed her maul. “And where did you...? There must have been a daedra with you?”

“I called his bluff and he attacked me. I zapped him to death.”

“You? But.... I suppose I shouldn't be surprised,” Kyndriel bent to pick up his dropped sword. “Ren'dar would have been pleased. And how many of them are there?”

“Just the two so far,” said Branhucar. “I... I don't think any of the rest of them know we're here.”

“Have you seen my father yet?”

Branhucar shook her head. “No. But if I can find you just by walking around, he must be somewhere just as close.”

–

When they found Kyndoril, he was not surrounded by daedra. But he was on one knee, the point of the silver blade held against the ground, the center of a ring of sunlight. His head was bowed in prayer; he did not see them approach.

“Lorkhan, spirit of the Void, grant me peace and shelter. In your shadow, I am made safe. Lorkhan, spirit of the Void, grant me peace and shelter....”

“You're safe now, you heathen,” said Kyndriel.

Kyndoril did not hear him. He continued his prayer.

“Father? Hey! We're right here!”

No answer.

Kyndriel sighed. “I can't tell if he's seeing things like us or if he's just not hearing us.”

“Well at least there are no daedra here.”

“And... why are we standing outside the circle like a pair of daedra?”

“The real question is which one of us is going to surprise your daedra-fighting dad in the middle of Oblivion.”

“I don't think surprising him is the best idea.”

“Maybe _we_ don't need to.”

That was only the matter of asking a question. The wolf, the Green spirit, whatever she was, she leapt from her body and approached the circle. When placing one paw in did nothing, she trotted to Kyndoril and gave him a solid headbutt.

Kyndoril flinched and jerked out of his trance.

“You again!”

The wolf tilted her head. “You were expecting another wolf, maybe?”

“You shouldn't be able to stand in this circle.”

“I am of the Green! As I have been for a thousand years! How many times must I remind you mortals!”

And with that, she returned. Kyndoril looked at Branhucar instead.

“She had me fooled,” he said. “But you! You're both safe! Thank Stendarr, you're safe....”

“You got us pulled into Coldharbour,” said Kyndriel.

“I'm sorry. I had hoped that I could seal the tear from Nirn and be done with it. But it was not so simple this time.”

“Why would you expect this to be simple after the Great Anguish?”

“Sometimes a hole in the Mundus is just that. A hole, waiting to be stitched. And sometimes it is the work of another, or something more powerful than us. Do not speak his name here. Do not even whisper it.”

“Sounds unlucky anyway,” said Branhucar. “Let's get out of this place?”

“You didn't see another portal, by chance? Was the way still open when you arrived?”

“No.... And I didn't see another way out.”

“Then... we keep looking. Come, every moment we linger is dangerous.”

–

Their search for an exit from Coldharbour led them from one shadowy path to the next, into stray daedra who were silenced with a quick blade.

“What I don't get is why this place is so empty,” Branhucar said. “Didn't you run into a ton of dremora two-hundred years ago?”

“That was during an invasion of Nirn. That is why I don't suspect the prince's direct involvement. Not this time. We're probably dealing with the aftermath of some fool of a necromancer's work.”

“That dead guy outside?”

“Suspicious, but too simple. In fact....”

Kyndoril's steps came to a halt at the entrance to another chamber – one lit with more blue fire. Vents in the wall high above spewed flames and held glowing magical lines, all leading to something floating in the air: a person in dark tattered robes, dangling as if suspended by their belt buckle, limp and still as if they had passed out.

“There was never supposed to be a way in or out,” said Kyndoril, “because this place was made to keep someone here.”

Branhucar stared at the body. And she felt a pang of sympathy. “Kyndoril?”

“Yes?”

“Could you lower them like you lowered us from that window?”

“Certainly, if we can loose their bonds.”

“Well I see a way.” She nodded at the center of the room, where what she could only describe as a 'diamond-shaped cage' hovered in the air, holding a bright blue flame. Whatever bound the floating victim, its magicka came from that. “I'm going to deal with that. You make sure that guy up there doesn't get hurt.”

Her new iron maul was nice and heavy. If its weight could take down an armored foe, then it could disrupt a magical device. Or so she hoped.

Branhucar hefted the maul and swung. It left a sizable dent. She struck again and it shattered. The magicka sputtered and died out, and the victim began a safe, slow descent.

Kyndriel walked to meet her.

“Not bad,” he said. “When we get out of here we should find you a better one of those. One that's not so... crude and daedric.”

The prisoner reached the floor and began to stir. There was a twitch. Recognition, of being conscious, and of their surroundings. A snarl, and heavy breathing. But despite that, they managed to stagger to their feet, revealing long hair and pointed ears, a deathly pallor, and... gleaming red eyes.

There was no time to curse or send a prayer to the gods. The vampire flung himself forward with inhuman speed.

Kyndriel screamed. But so did the vampire. Branhucar opened her eyes to see the Dragonborn clutching his forearm, while the vampire recoiled, gasping and wiping at his mouth with his hands. Color had returned to them, and his eyes had lost their glow.

Those brown eyes widened in fright as quick footsteps drew near. A flash of silver – a cloud of mist reformed a good distance away and there was the vampire, alive and whole.

Kyndoril charged. The vampire vanished and appeared out of reach again. Kyndoril turned and gathered a ball of light; it struck a ward and burned the floor where its remnants landed. But the vampire made no motion to strike back. He fled again, leading his enemy on a chase through the room.

Branhucar took the opportunity to check on Kyndriel, forgotten in the battle. He'd pushed back his sleeve to heal the wound. There were still bruises.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“That thing _bit_ me,” he groaned. “If we don't find a way to cleanse it....”

“How do we do that?” She searched her mind. What did she know about vampires? “What if.... What if I bit you instead?”

“Very funny.” Kyndriel looked back to the fight, and as he watched, his brow creased. “Bran? What's going on?”

The vampire had given up on mist, relying on his own speed and luck to dodge relentless strikes, and magic to shield himself where he could not escape. His hands were empty, open. He did not retaliate, but retreated, as silver crashed against his wards.

A yell – the fighting stopped as heads turned, surprised, by the sight of Kyndriel sprinting at the vampire. The vampire who realized what was about to happen just a second too late.

Kyndriel's fist cracked against his jaw. The vampire stumbled backwards and fell, then sat there and watched as the mer bent over and muttered strings of curses under his breath.

“Not a bad arm you have there,” said the vampire.

“Would you... kindly... shut the f–”

“Son,” Kyndoril moved closer. “Step aside.”

“Argh! Hold on,” Kyndriel held up his other hand. “Something's... something's not right here.”

“Yes, you're two feet away from a vampire. And you're taking your eyes off him!”

Kyndriel looked back at the vampire, who seemed content to remain seated there. Then he turned back to his father. “You just spent a good minute trying to kill him! And _he's_ not even trying to fight back! Something's different about him.”

“Of course there is. He drew your blood and it sated him. He's weaker now, but he's still a threat.”

“He's right, you know,” said the vampire.

Kyndriel waved his off hand in exasperation. “But why attack me – us – and not finish the job?”

The vampire stared at him. “Have you ever been on the brink of starvation? So hungry that you would do anything to save yourself?”

Branhucar's mind flew back to being small in Markarth. Sneaking food from the others. Knowing what would happen if she got caught. No, she reminded herself. It had been ages ago.

“I think I understand you,” said Kyndriel. “But I would just _ask_ for food.”

“Vampires' minds go when they're starved,” Kyndoril told him. “It's part of their curse.”

“Ah, no,” said the vampire. “My mind went from being in Coldharbour for so long. The hungriest vampires you've ever met have just been desperate. I might as well have been shriven.”

“Just as well. And do you really expect me to forgive you for trying to kill my son?”

“Hardly. But speaking of him....” The vampire looked at Kyndriel again. “You look pained. Are you all right?”

From the tension in his arm and the edge in his voice, no. “Your face... broke my hand....”

Kyndoril looked from his son, to the vampire, to his son again. He sheathed his sword. “You've earned one chance, vampire. Attack us again and Stendarr help me, I will stake you with a wooden spoon.”

The vampire's eyes widened in surprise. “Ah. Well, I suppose that is generous.”

And just like that, the fight with the vampire was truly over. Branhucar realized she'd still been gripping the spiked iron maul and that its weight was starting to become inconvenient. She set it down and walked closer to watch.

Kyndriel sat with his hand outstretched, face wrinkled, while Kyndoril knelt across from him, his own hands manipulating magicka between them.

“So many bones,” he said. “This is going to take a few minutes.”

“I must apologize,” said the vampire. “I regret that we met in these circumstances.”

Branhucar had once had her own worries of turning into a beast, rampaging without her own mind or senses. The dreaded rampage had never happened. Turning without warning was another story.

Kyndriel looked at him. “I've had worse than this.”

Branhucer noticed the vampire's eyes on her.

“You seem a bit familiar,” he said. “But I doubt we've met.”

Branhucar had to agree. Something about the sight of Verandis, now that he was himself, got a happy bark from the wolf. “Nope. Name's Branhucar.”

“I am Verandis Ravenwatch.”

“Ravenwatch?” repeated Kyndoril.

“You know of me?” asked Verandis.

“Honestly, no. I've heard the name. Can't remember where.”

“What is the year?”

“Two-hundred-and-two. Of the Fourth Era.”

Verandis flinched. “Fourth? Arkay's beard. How long has it been? Four-thousand years? Five-thousand? How is it we share a common tongue?”

“The Third Era was absurdly short. When were you imprisoned?”

“I... can't say. There was war. Emeric's armies–”

“One-thousand years, then.”

“That doesn't bother you?”

“I've dealt with these things before,” said Kyndoril, to which Verandis opened his mouth in bemusement, revealing average, if sharp, canines. Kyndoril ignored him. “All right, now. Try moving your fingers.... Perfect!”

Kyndriel tested his fingers, then tried making another fist. “Still feels like I tried to fight a brick wall.”

“That will take a few days to pass. Your body is still reacting to your injury and the bruising was deep.”

“And... the bite?” asked Kyndriel. “No offense, but....”

Verandis shook his head. “You are well. I know you don't trust me, but the curse is not as easily spread as you fear. It would take more than one unplanned bite to turn one such as you.”

“One such as me?”

“Your blood did not sate me so much as burn my mouth and break my master's grip. That's never happened before.”

Kyndriel did not answer for a moment. “Well, I can't imagine why. But I'm glad you're sound of mind again.”

“Most people fear the sane vampires, you know.”

“Normally I might,” Kyndriel admitted. He stood, and then offered his healed hand to Verandis. “But you seem to be a decent mer. I would hate to–”

A flash of golden light fell over Kyndriel, and he glared at his father.

“Only a precaution,” said Kyndoril.

Verandis took Kyndriel's hand and stood. And next to him, it became apparent that Verandis was a bit small for an Altmer, matching the Dragonborn in terms of height. Maybe absurd tallness was a Summerset thing.

“Branhucar, right?” said Verandis. “I've never seen anyone shatter one of my master's pinions as you have. We will need that strength again to leave this place.”

“So you want me to smash things with that nail bat again,” she said.

“Yes. I would be grateful if you would wield your... nail bat.”

–

Life was easier with a nail bat. Branhucar's borrowed werewolf strength made it manageable as a large stick, and as she soon discovered she could channel magic across the surface. Sparks of lightning jumped over the spikes, adding decisive magical might with each swing. And swing she did, for the daedra fell upon them again when Kyndriel made one simple mistake.

“You must never speak my master's name in his realm!” Verandis admonished him. Despite his fatigue, he summoned a ball of fire and cast it at the giant eye of a floating mass of tentacles.

“I forgot somewhere around being bitten!” Kyndriel yelled. He inhaled as a group of minuscule daedra charged them, crackling with blue flames.... “FUS RO DAH!”

The tiny daedra went sailing twenty feet before exploding into coldfire and bile.

Ahead, Kyndoril was silent, too focused on his dance of silver and steel and his sun magic to to get involved in their banter. Dremora came, menacing with their black iron maces and swords. They fell in matters of seconds.

Kyndriel was right, Branhucar realized. Kyndoril was no longer the timid young king who had tried to parley in Dagon's realm and run from the dremora like a frightened hare. Or the mer who had been captured in Markarth. There was another story in his past to be sure. But there was no time to think about that, not when daedra slipped out of reach of his blades and stepped far too close to her.

Her maul cracked through iron plate and her enemy fell back, winded. And Kyndoril did not let them escape a second time.

The battle was over. Branhucar cast a wary eye around to be sure, but Verandis relaxed.

“He can hear everything in this place,” Verandis said. “We're beneath his attention, but to speak his name is to challenge him. So don't do that again.”

“If he knows we're here, won't he just send more daedra?” Kyndriel asked.

“He can't be bothered to watch every intruder in his realm. He probably thinks we're dead.”

Verandis stepped past them, over the cooling bodies of the dremora, and led them deeper into the twisting halls of Coldharbour.

“There are places here that once anchored this realm to Nirn,” he explained. “They are still gaps in the veil between worlds. One of them was close to my home, or whatever is left of it.”

“Where is it? Your home, I mean?” Branhucar asked.

“Crestshade. A village to the west of Shornhelm. I am... I was their count.”

“Oh! Well, your... um....” How did people address counts?

“Verandis is good enough.”

“Just because it's been a while doesn't mean it's gone.”

“My people were cursed by a plague of bloodfiends shortly before I became trapped in this realm.”

“Oh. Shit. Uh....”

Kyndoril took control of the awkwardness. “I sympathize. I've known the fear and regret of being imprisoned, helpless while my people suffered.”

“Ah. A lord of the Dominion, then,” said Verandis.

“Summerset, formerly. Dominion? No, I went into exile before the Dominion returned. I've taken up careers in the priesthood, daedra hunting, and the just and discretionary redistribution of goods since my days on the throne ended. And you?”

“As a count of House Ravenwatch, I oversaw my ancestral holdings in Rivenspire... under the good will of High King Emeric.”

“I thought that the mer of Rivenspire lost their lands when the houses joined under the Covenant's banner?”

“Emeric had a soft spot for me. I had the privilege of being his tutor during his childhood, long before he learned what I was. When Rivenspire finally bent knee to him, the issue was brought to his attention. But, no. I was his old friend and tutor, not a blight upon Arkay's law. I remained. Crestshade thrived, until the Covenant was betrayed. And... here we are.”

“I should end more of my tales like that.”

“No. We're arrived.”

Verandis stopped and gestured into a ritual chamber, where a set of four gray pinions hovered around a dais. The sensation of life, of warmth, hung in the air.

Branhucar lifted her iron maul again. “Should I smash?”

“You could, but that might trap us here for eternity.”

She nearly dropped her nail bat. Verandis approached the dais and magicka gathered in his hands. A pinion filled with cold blue light and opened.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm doing the only thing that will get us out of here,” said Verandis, focusing on the next pinion.

“A daedric ritual?”

“What else?”

The third pinion opened, then the fourth. A bright glowing pool appeared on the dais, and the dark, dreary ritual chamber flooded with sunlight and the scent of earth.

“Come! Before it closes!”

Branhucar had some misgivings about entering such a light, about letting herself fall into a hole in the Void. But the others were there. And Verandis was, in a way, compelling.


	6. Verandis

She was sure that she was falling, and then the world stilled. Branhucar felt her head spin and her stomach lurch, and sat until the urge to heave passed.

“I hate portals,” muttered Kyndriel.

“You don't... hate portals,” said Kyndoril. “You just hate getting flung across the Void, like a normal person.”

Branhucar looked up in time to see the portal swirl high above them. It imploded on itself with a noise like thunder, and loomed no more. Low clouds gave way to evening skies.

They were in the center of an old graveyard. Worn headstones and entryways to catacombs encircled them, where they had landed on massive stone slab. It had to be ancient; thick pine trees had long since broken through the rock, but weathered daedric inscriptions were still visible where it remained intact.

“So, what now?” Branhucar asked. Her nail bat was gone. The Breton sword still strapped to her hip wasn't as comforting.

“Now,” said Verandis, “we depart before a hoard of knights errant descend upon us.”

A breeze swept through, and a sharp scent hit Branhucar's nose. She turned for another look at the ruins and found the source: a pile of apples and spilled grain, rotting on a stone altar.

“Knights errant or Sheor heretics,” Kyndriel said, noticing the spoiled offerings. “They could have at least burned this mess.”

“How do you know it's Sheor?” said Branhucar. “This is Bal's altar, isn't it?”

“Harvest god. I'm of a mind with our new friend. We need to go.”

Verandis brushed his robes off and began to walk. “I will see what has become of Crestshade. If you wish to follow me, I have some questions for the three of you.”

It might have been a bad idea to follow a vampire, but they had already committed to many of those and this one was considerably less awful than walking straight up to Coldharbour. Branhucar jogged to catch up with Kyndriel, and relaxed as an arm wrapped around her shoulder. They stepped out of the graveyard. The trees continued into misty wooded mountains.

“You want to know what in Oblivion just happened,” Kyndriel said.

“Not exactly. What on Nirn just happened? How did you breach my master's realm so easily?”

“Someone left the door open. We were at the ruins of Erokii. Soul-shriven attacked us. My father decided he would relive his glory days and close the portal.”

“Why would anyone come to.... But you don't know who opened that portal?”

“We found a single body. Someone carrying a silver blade. It looked to me like they tried to run.”

“And is that portal shut?”

Nobody answered. But, Branhucar could not remember anything that looked like a way out. Verandis and his path back to Nirn had been impossible to miss.

“I didn't see any other portals until you opened one,” she said. “And I had a good long walk through that place. So, maybe it worked. Maybe it's gone now.”

“Thank you. But it still needs investigating. In due course.”

The stars had come out. Little daylight was left to light up the woods. Verandis stopped at what Branhucar had mistaken for a mound of overgrown rock. Worn steps led the remains of a watchtower.

“This is the best I can offer you tonight,” said Verandis.

“Long as we don't get attacked this time,” Kyndriel said.

“I can assure your safety.”

Kyndoril entered the tower first, ducking his head to avoid the low doorway. His gaze swept across. A familiar ripple of magicka passed over.

“Nothing but insects,” he said. “And weren't you on your way to Crestshade?”

Verandis' face fell. “I have kept the village waiting a thousand years. What difference is one day?”

“Very well.”

“I know, you're not eager to sleep near a vampire. But may Arkay strike me down if I harm one of you again.”

“You might as well sleep too,” said Branhucar. “Whatever was happening earlier didn't look comfortable.”

“Truer words were never spoken. But you three get settled. I'll be back soon.”

A watchtower was decent as far as roadside shelters went. It was better than hiding in the depths of a bedroll on the cold Whiterun plains or relying on an empty dragon grave to shield them from the wind. But without the warmth of a bedroll, or even a blanket, there was nothing to do but set their things down and hope that sleep would take them before discomfort set in.

At least, they still had some rations and water left. And as they finished dividing a portion of salted beef, Verandis returned with more firewood than looked reasonable to carry. Soon they had a small fire driving out the cold and the lingering dread of Oblivion.

–

True to his word, Verandis did not lay a finger on them. A goat had not been so lucky. As dawn gave way to morning, Kyndoril stepped outside the tower and set to work butchering it.

“You going to want some of this blood?” Kyndoril asked.

“Generous, but animal blood cannot sustain a vampire.”

“Well you need something. You don't look well.”

Branhucar looked up. Verandis was paler than the night before, and his eyes had the faintest glow.

“I'll manage,” said Verandis.

“What did you eat before?” asked Branhucar. “I mean, blood, obviously, but.... You were a... count? How does being a vampire and a count at the same time even work?”

Kyndoril glanced up from the goat carcass, and she knew that she had crossed a line.

Kyndriel spoke up. “I'll give Verandis more benefit of the doubt than, say, High Kinlord Silabaene, may spiders nest in his undergarments. But... I'm also curious.”

“My duties to the people of Crestshade,” said Verandis, “did not end when I was turned. I was simply forced to hire more people to meet my needs. They were as cared for and willing as any of my retainers.”

“And nobody noticed that you never aged?” said Kyndriel.

“I'm an elf, and humans generally don't have the time to watch an elf grow old. But after a time, my condition became known to the other houses and the church.”

“And... how did that work out?”

“My family name still commanded some respect. And I had nothing that the houses wanted, and it wasn't as though I was hoarding the relics of saints in my castle. Nobody trusted me, of course, but who in their right mind would challenge a master vampire? Kyndoril, I was holding back yesterday.”

Kyndoril put his hand down.

“So you're saying you need to eat people blood,” said Branhucar. “But you haven't asked us because we don't work for you.”

“Correct. The position of nutritional assistant is strictly at will, but as of now I have no compensation to offer but dead animals. And without others to assist, I fear that routine bloodletting would be problematic for you.”

Kyndriel raised his hand.

Verandis frowned. “I'm sorry, but after yesterday I just don't think you're a good fit for the job.”

“You can bite me any time,” said Kyndoril.

Verandis apparently still had some blood. It all rushed to his cheeks and ears. “Try again when you're serious, hunter.”

“Really,” said Branhucar, “do you need a vein? Because I have blood and worse things have happened to me, and I think a whole goat is a fair trade as long as you don't turn me into a human raisin.”

“That's kind, but please keep your blood for now.”

–

With goat and the occasional hare to stretch their provisions, they were able to march northward. The woods stretched on, promising more game for them, and shade for Verandis. But there was a feeling of unease that Branhucar could not explain, not in her mind, and not to her company. Not that it stopped her from trying.

“It's... not like Valenwood,” Kyndoril told her. “But it is not cursed, or haunted.”

“You're still not used to forests, are you Bran,” said Kyndriel. “I felt the same in Markarth. Too much stone after a life of green and sea.”

“You sound well-traveled,” Verandis said.

“Long story. Decades.”

“Centuries,” said Kyndoril.

But it was a long walk. And there was nothing else to do but tell tales of previous journeys, made longer by pausing to explain to Verandis why there was a new Imperial Divine, why that new Divine was illegal, why Markarth was no longer a free kingdom of Reachmen, and why the Dominion was suddenly an authority in High Rock.

But Verandis lingered on one detail.

“So... you're Dragonborn,” he said.

“Yes,” said Kyndriel.

“Actually Dragonborn. And Akatosh himself blessed you with his presence just months ago.”

“I... I suppose he did.”

“Well that explains why you taste like pain.”

“At least we know what to do if you lose it again.”

“I don't think your father likes that idea.”

“Are we sure you can't eat something else?”

Verandis glanced back at them. “Vampires can indulge in food, drink, any pleasures that mortals know. But these are just frivolities. They cannot replace the need for blood.”

“Of course.... Wouldn't be a curse if you could just ignore it by doing normal things.”

The woods thinned. In the distance, steps cut into hill led up to a weathered stone brick wall. But there was no scent of smoke in the air. No sounds of voices or work carried down.

Verandis led them up, to a sight of streets overtaken by grass and moss, and row upon row of abandoned buildings – some collapsed on rotten wood frame. Stray trees dotted the village. But if anyone had died there, the mountain had taken every trace of them long ago.

“This... was Crestshade,” said Verandis. “I had hoped that the town had been salvageable. Instead, I see that my error has salted this earth.”

“Verandis,” said Kyndoril, “the Bretons have had a thousand years to return. At a certain point, the plague of bloodfiends stops being the issue.”

“This never would have happened if–”

“Anything could have happened. You could have been invaded by Tiber Septim. You could have been caught up in the political nightmare that was High Rock in my youth. You could have had an Oblivion gate open in the middle of–”

Kyndoril stopped. His eyes fixed on something in the distance. A great archway of spiked stone rose from the deserted town square.

“Slek!”

Branhucar looked at him. “What?”

“Well, there you are, Verandis,” said Kyndoril. “The Deadlands opened in the middle of Crestshade. I should think that absolves you of the current state of things.”

Verandis spun to face him. “I could have held back the tides of Oblivion had I not been in Oblivion!”

Kyndoril scoffed. “And what would you have done? Stormed the Deadlands? Forced the gates of Oblivion to close? Vampires were very flammable when last I checked!”

“Don't underestimate me, you overgrown, Alinoran–”

Branhucar stepped between them. Both mer stopped arguing, and as she looked down at them she realized that it had something to do with her growing head and shoulders above them and sprouting a lot of hair.

She swished her tail. **“Kyndoril, your life sucks, but you've had two-hundred years to cope that Verandis hasn't. Verandis, it's terrible what happened here, but you also sound hangry.”**

“I sound... what?”

“**It's the first thing Ghorza taught me. You need to eat.”**

“I... don't suppose you'd accept a vein in apology,” muttered Kyndoril.

Verandis shook his head. “There's no need for that. But let us speak longer. If you are still willing later, then yes. I will gratefully accept.”

–

Castle Ravenwatch, a short walk north, was luckier than the town. Its iron fence had rusted and the courtyard was in shambles, but the building and several pieces of wooden furniture within were still mostly intact. And there, Verandis decided at last to take Kyndoril up on his offer.

The donation left Kyndoril drowsy and restored Verandis' appearance of a typical living mer. Refreshed, he was free to walk around the long wooden table, lamenting the entire scenario.

“Were you a thousand years earlier I would have had a feast prepared to thank you. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with the goat.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” said Kyndriel, “Bran and I have learned better than to expect food in ancient ruins. You're not exactly letting us down.”

“Yeah,” said Branhucar. “It's not like the ancient Nords left thousand-year-old cheese for us.”

“But... we're mortals, we do need to eat, and we can't ask you to go hunting all the time. We appreciate the hospitality, but we must chart our next course. We need to leave Rivenspire. Before the Thalmor trace us here.”

“They can... do that?”

It hadn't been enough to get away from the city and run through Oblivion, had it. No, said the look on Kyndriel's face. No, apparently not.

Kyndriel sighed. “Our fate is grim if we are caught, but if the Thalmor have no mercy for fugitives, they have less for vampires.”

Verandis finally stopped pacing and sat. “Yes, that might pose a problem. And I no longer have the blessing of the king. I don't even know his name.”

“No idea,” said Kyndoril.

“Me neither,” said Branhucar.

“Haven't the foggiest,” Kyndriel muttered.

“Wait, you?” asked Branhucar. “Don't they teach you who's in charge of where in Thalmor school?”

“Look, humans change kings like they change undergarments and I was deployed twenty years ago. Anything could have happened in that time.”

Kyndoril waved his hand. “All we can tell you is the same warning we were given before sailing in. Rivenspire, despite all these Thalmor running around, still loves the Alessian doctrines and all of High Rock is just as entrenched in political fighting as you would remember it, if not worse.”

“Then may I ask what you hope to find to the south?” said Verandis.

“Peace. And perhaps a stiff drink.”

“I see. I offer another night of hospitality. If you travel east at sunrise, you might find the city of Shornhelm by nightfall. And from there, the road will take you south, through Oldgate and to Alcaire.”


	7. The Northpoint Incident

With low rations and some regrets, the three set off from Crestshade. Their peaceful night on Nirn and the safety of Castle Ravenwatch had lifted their spirits, for a few good hours. But with daybreak came the reminder that it could not last. A long-lost count with no food could not house them, and that meant returning to more unwelcoming holds and all the dangers that waited there.

“Nothing we haven't done before, right Kyn?” Branhucar said, eyeing the descent into the wooded valley.

“No Stormcloaks occupying Shornhelm, at least,” he replied.

“And no Thalmor expecting us.”

“Hm.”

“You don't sound very sure about that.”

“I know them too well,” said Kyndriel. “They'll expand their search if they care enough.”

“Then we don't give them any more reason to care.”

“Oh, Bran....”

“The three of us, in a city miles and miles from where anyone last saw us? If we don't draw attention and keep out of the way of the justiciars, we'll be just fine.”

“I wish I had that optimism.”

Branhucar sighed. “It's... not that. But what choice do we have?”

“You'd rather hope for the best despite everything, because that makes it easier to keep walking. A very human sentiment. But... I think I understand.”

–

By mid-morning, they'd cleared the trees. Rivenspire opened up into what might have been a nightmare image of Whiterun's plains; tundra stretched out before them, but with mountains at one shoulder and endless spires and walls of stone jutting from the landscape in the south, the landscape felt oppressive. Ready to close in around them. And the winds wailing around them did not help.

It still wasn't as cursed as Skyrim, Kyndoril told them. And when they asked what he meant, he glanced at his son.

“Between us, you are the historian, I think. But, I am the priest. Never before Skyrim had I felt such a constant presence of Lorkhan, so close, but so... dormant. It is fitting. His blood does stain Skyrim from Falkreath to Shor's Stone.”

“How can you be sure of that...?”

“History. The trajectory of Auri-El's sacred arrow. The legends of evil unearthed in eastern Hammerfell, the southern Reach, Falkreath. Confessions from miners in the Rift.”

“What confessions?”

“If I told you more, I wouldn't be a good priest, would I? Suffice to say, Rivenspire is not as cursed as Skyrim's southern woodlands. It simply cannot be.”

By the time the sun was past their shoulders, they'd come to wider, flatter lowlands. Though the road hugged the north, farmland and pasture were soon visible, followed by wispy trails of smoke. Scents of livestock and life blew in from the east – not the best thing, but after Coldharbour and with her stomach growling and her legs aching, she welcomed it.

At last, they came to a castle town nestled at the foot of the mountain. They joined the crowd in the market outside the gates and began to pick their way past men selling wool and vegetables. When she could hear over Bretons hawking turnips and spring onions, snatches of gossip reached Branhucar's ears.

“Have you heard of Northpoint?” a woman asked someone else.

“Can't say I have.”

The conversation fell into excited whispers, too quiet to hear over the crowd. But there were other rumors.

“My cousin in Fell's Run, he said....”

“... course the king would never....”

“... the whole building! It's a wonder anyone....”

“Well good riddance....”

“Hush! They have ears!”

The last time she'd heard so much excitement in such a crowded place, it was because someone had tried to stab someone else and everyone had known what it meant. Branhucar could only guess that something big had happened since their escape. Still, it probably didn't concern them.

“... Thalmor are furious....”

It probably concerned them. Branhucar nudged Kyndriel to see if he was picking up everything that she was.

“We'll worry about rumors later,” he said. “No sense thinking about it on an empty stomach.”

Ahead of them, Kyndoril readjusted his bag and began climbing the steps up toward the city gates. He said nothing else, until they were within the walls of Shornhelm, surrounded once more by brick and wood that stretched three stories above the hard ground.

He led them silently to an inn and crossed the threshold. As usual, the noise of so many patrons swelled and muffled all other sounds. Branhucar could not hear what Kyndoril said to the innkeeper, or guess why the man looked so confused to see him. It did not make sense until, minutes later, the mer had led them upstairs and to a dimly lit inn room, where he turned to lock the door. His face was unrecognizable.

Then he pulled his hood away. It had never been a hood. It was a gray leather mask.

“I apologize for startling you. But I daresay the innkeeper needed it.” Kyndoril cast a familiar charm over the room, then opened his bag. “Congratulations. You're both in print.”

He laid something on their table. Branhucar's guts twisted. There, staring up at them, were their own faces. Their names and crimes – some theirs, some invented – were written beneath them in a strange, shimmering dark ink. Each was stamped with the eagle heraldry of the Aldmeri Dominion.

“Oh, gods,” said Branhucar. “But... we didn't _do _any arson.”

Kyndoril tore a hunk off a loaf of bread and offered it to her. It was still warm.

“But.... When did you get...? Why?”

Kyndriel bent over to read. “Vandalism, theft, flight from incarceration.... That says 'arson' all right, but... malicious wounding, high crimes against Northpoint.... By Stendarr, I don't.... Father, you need to look at this again.”

He shoved Kyndoril's poster at him. The mer was silent, while his son began to pace, while Branhucar sat on the edge of her bed and waited for the Thalmor to come and kick their door in. Kyndoril frowned.

“Oh, those cheap bastards. The king's mer make the Imperial guard look generous. Five-thousand septims. Really!”

“What does it matter what the bounty is?” Kyndriel hissed. “Arson! High crimes! We'll be dead in a week!”

“You forget who these Thalmor are dealing with.”

“What, the master of hiding in church basements?”

“Son. I did not evade the Thalmor, the Thieves Guild, and every brute the Black-Briars set upon my trail for twenty-five years to be caught in an inn room.”

Kyndriel opened his mouth.

“You're the one who led us into Northpoint.”

Kyndriel closed his mouth and let out a long breath through his nose. “Fine. What is your plan, o' master of thieves.”

“You're shaving. I'm not shaving. Branhucar... honestly if we'd never met I don't think I could pick you out of a crowd based on this. Much too vague.”

“Well.... It'll take weeks to grow this again,” said Kyndriel, running his hand over his beard. “But, those are weeks we only get if we don't get caught. Fine. I'll need your things.”

The next several minutes were a slow affair, as the Dragonborn hunched over a table, staring into a small polished mirror, restoring his image to the day he'd left Markarth behind. There was nothing for Kyndoril to do but wait for time to disguise him.

“I don't suppose elves have a hair growing spell,” asked Branhucar.

“If there is such a spell,” said Kyndoril, “it is jealously guarded to prevent the masses from sprouting beards overnight.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“A beard is a mark of venerable age and wisdom. When it starts growing it's polite to get rid of it or keep it short, as a mark of Altmeri agelessness or respect for greater mer. But... it typically doesn't start growing for at least century.”

“A _century_?”

“And mine came in before I was even thirty,” said Kyndriel. “Load of fun that was.”

“What? Why?”

“First there's the teasing. But then when people notice you got your beard on a human schedule, they start noticing other things, like the shape of your nose and eyes.”

“Oh. I see....”

“Of course, if nobody knows who you are or when you were born, that's another story. Can't tell you how many of my comrades thought I was five times my age when they caught me with my shaving things.” He rubbed his face. “There. Smooth as Mara's backside.”

“Oh, I'm going to miss having such a clean shave,” said Kyndoril. “But such is life.”

–

Night fell. Kyndoril, with his ability to befuddle onlookers without so much as a word, went to fetch food again. When they'd started to worry about him, he pushed their door open and stepped in, bearing a tray with boiled vegetables and stewed venison. He shut the door with his boot.

“Dinner, courtesy of our old friends and jailers.” The smile faded from his voice. “And... grim news. There was a terrible fire in Northpoint. The hall of justice, its Thalmor headquarters, and half a marketplace were destroyed. And from the sound of it, the flames took forever to die down. Magic was little use.”

Kyndriel sank in his chair. “Kindlepitch. It must have been. I'm sure they suspect we set the blaze after we left.”

“And where were we supposed to get that stuff?” asked Branhucar.

“They caught us coming out of that smuggler's tunnel. They found the contraband. They have no reason to believe we were innocent.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Eat,” said Kyndoril. “Replenish your strength. Son, how long do we have?”

“Depends,” said Kyndriel. “If they've already scoured the place today we might be safe. If not.... Well, we can expect them to knock politely and yell, 'Open up in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion.'”

A sharp knock sounded at their door. “Open up in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion!”

“Be right there!” Kyndoril yelled back. Then he looked at them and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Children, I need to you trust me.”

He motioned at a corner of the room and mouthed 'go'. In the next moment, he loosened the laces of his shirt, yanked the ribbon tying his hair, and cracked the door open.

“Oh my, I wasn't expecting you so soon!”

Branhucar and Kyndriel, huddled in the adjacent corner and just out of sight, exchanged looks. Kyndriel shrugged.

The justiciar was stunned. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, sir, there's no need to be coy. Come in, relax.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“Of course, sir. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Kyndoril shut the door. The justiciar, Branhucar assumed, left to invade someone else's privacy. Kyndoril meanwhile began pulling his leather armor back on, in what must have been a precaution.

“You realize that ruse won't work long,” said Kyndriel. “And you can't just fling yourself at every justiciar you see!”

“I can, and it works wonders.”

“These mer.... It's just as I remember. If we run now they'll spot us. If we stay and they realize what happened.... Oh, Xarxes, give me foresight.”

Branhucar stood over the table and went to work finishing off her stew and vegetables, ears straining for other sounds of movement. Kyndoril waited by the door, focused, concentrating on something she couldn't see. It was a minute before the Dragonborn relaxed enough to finish eating, and Kyndoril ended his vigil to join them.

“I think we've thrown them off our scent,” he said. “At least for the night.”

“What now?” asked Branhucar.

“We lie low. Keep our heads down. Let me handle things outside this room while the Thalmor lose interest. The city knows our faces, but they don't know the Gray Fox.”

It was just like Whiterun, thought Branhucar, only colder, and every attempt to leave came with the risk of the innkeeper selling them for a potato. If he had not sold them out already.

“Well, Kyn? How long until the Thalmor forget us?”

“They won't,” said Kyndriel. “But they might think we moved on if we give it time.”

“How much time, then?”

“Maybe another week. Maybe two. But in all my time in the Thalmor I've never seen anything like the Northpoint incident.”

–

Holed up in that inn room, the days slowed. Kyndoril donned the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal and went to fetch food. Talk of Northpoint or the Thalmor was held only in whispers, even when the roar of noise in the hall below and muffling spells drowned out their words. The only reading material was Imperial scripture tucked away in a nightstand, which only held so much entertainment value. Mostly in the form of starting conversations with the two elves in her company.

“If the Gods of Men are 'tender and patient', why are Shor and Alduin terrible?”

“Alduin wasn't that bad, though. I mean, we did see him, right?” Kyndriel reminded her.

She remembered being very dead and facing the dark dragon god. Alduin, now that she recalled staring into his fiery eyes, had been more agreeable than the Nords had made him out to be, if crankier than what she imagined from Akatosh.

“Shor _is_ terrible,” said Kyndoril. “Lorkhan in all his guises is absolutely vile. Literally the worst.”

“What was with that prayer in Coldharbour, then?” asked Branhucar.

“Branhucar, dear, if you don't put that Marukhati nonsense down I will be forced to find new material for you to read.”

“Please do. At this point I'd read _2920_ again.”

“Absolutely not. Gods, I should see if no one has _King Edward_. It was popular in High Rock and Summerset when I was your age.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. High Rock loved its fanciful tales. On Summerset you either hated or loved it and it was the subject of so much impassioned discourse.”

“And where were you on that?” asked Kyndriel.

“A kinlord has little time for discourse over historical fiction. But... now that you ask... I am not a kinlord and I have thoughts about the tale of Josea and Lucky.”

“Wait! How are we supposed to follow if we don't know the story?”

And that was how Kyndoril once again took the role of storyteller, and struggled to recount a book he had not read in over two centuries. His retelling took hours, and with breaks for meals, it lasted into the night.

And it left Branhucar's mind buzzing with questions of magic, elven sages, Morrowind, the gods, a very casual Akatosh, and the entire concept of dragons. Somehow, thought Branhucar, the author had _known_ that friendly dragons greeted each other with fire. Had they ever seen dragons?

“The bit about magic and daedra,” muttered Kyndriel. “It's been a long time since I've heard that one.”

“High Rock loves the old doctrines,” replied Kyndoril.

Branhucar, where she'd nearly fallen asleep on her bed, raised her head to look at them. “What's that about?”

“Well,” said Kyndriel, “humans have always connected elves to magic. When the Alessian Order took over Cyrodiil, they told the masses that magic came from daedra worship, which was a thing some Ayleid city-states did. Every mage who didn't serve the Order was a witch. Every elf was a witch. Every witch they caught, they killed. The doctrines are old history now, but the superstition remains among more... religiously inclined humans.”

“So, the person who wrote that whole story....”

“Maybe. I don't think this writer hated elves. But the old lies have a way of persisting, even where no harm is meant.”


	8. The Flight from Shornhelm

Before another week passed, before Kyndoril had time to make good on his threat to bring new books, another fist pounded their door.

“I'm not decent!” yelled Kyndoril, who was of course fully dressed.

“Open this door in the name of the Aldmeri Dominion!”

Again, Branhucar and Kyndriel hid. And she knew that they had spent their last night in Shornhelm.

“All right! Just... one moment!”

“If you do not open this door, we shall open it by force!”

Kyndoril sighed and moved to unlock it. No sooner had he cracked the door than the Thalmor justiciar shoved it open and pushed his way into the room. His eyes swept past Kyndoril. Branhucar watched, baring teeth before even replacing them with fangs, as the justiciar drew moonstone-steel and glanced back out the door.

But before the justiciar could speak, his shoulders sagged and he fell. Kyndoril caught him, tossed the unconscious body into the bed farthest from the door, and grabbed his bag. Then he picked up the dropped sword and handed it to his son.

“We're leaving,” said Kyndoril.

“He said 'we',” whispered Bran. “There are more of them.”

“We're leaving as if nothing happened.”

After a hasty collection of their things and a spell that Kyndoril warned would only make them less remarkable, they stepped out into the hall, slipped behind the back of a passing justiciar, and down the stairs. None of the inn's other patrons saw three fugitives pick their way from the landing to the door out into the daylight. None of the elves' heads turned to give them a second glance.

Then a shout came upstairs, and the roar of the inn dulled to a murmur. They stepped onto the street, heard rising cries behind them, and tried to disappear into the people of Shornhelm as fast as they could without drawing more eyes....

A yell, this time in Altmeris. A number of voices in the distance responded. And Branhucar felt a strange touch, like a hair, or a thread, or a bit of cobweb. It could not be brushed off. It was magicka.

Kyndriel swore and his father began to hurry, turning abruptly away from the southern gate, weaving through a group that had gathered outside of a tailor's shop. Kyndoril began forming a spell, something very subtle but charged with intent. She barely saw the pale light that appeared on the cobblestones before she followed him over it, and did not feel anything.

“What was that,” Branhucar asked him.

“A little surprise for our friends. Hurry now. And get that marker off you.”

“How do I do that?”

“It's not your magicka. Find it and fling it.”

She tried, but it was very stubborn. Kyndriel made a frustrated growl and Branhucar felt him tug at the thread himself.

“Well they're determined,” he said. “It's got me too.”

Just as another justiciar raised the alarm, Kyndoril made a sweeping gesture with his hand. The magical threads snapped. He broke into a jog. Branhucar sprinted after him, fast as her legs would allow her to keep up.

A shout: “Mer down!”

They did not stop or even slow. But Kyndoril veered left, to the side of an old storehouse. Branhucar's feet hit something and she flew forward. She pushed herself back up, ignoring the pains in her chest and arm, and looked back frantically to see Kyndriel apologize to another elf lying on a thin blanket.

Ahead, Kyndoril lifted a metal covering from what might have once been a well. He cast another spell, one more familiar.

“I've cast Slowfall, so jump,” he said, before dropping down out of sight.

She heard his feet touch stone somewhere below, and ignored her mind's warnings to use the ladder. This time, she landed on her feet, and seconds later Kyndriel had done the same. Kyndoril greeted them with a faint mage light. Then she noticed the stench.

“What kind of place is this?” she choked.

“Oh, right,” said Kyndriel. “Skyrim doesn't know what a sewer is.”

“Of course Skyrim knows what a sewer is,” said Kyndoril, turning and leading them along a walkway above the foul, stagnant water. “It's where they put their poor.”

Branhucar frowned. “The warrens didn't smell this bad. Where's the way out?”

“We're getting there. Let me think... I believe we must turn right....”

They had soon rounded a corner. But moments later, a voice somewhere behind them yelled, “Down here!”

“Shit.”

“All right, prisoners! We know you're in here! Come out!”

They said nothing in response. Branhucar hoped the justiciar would believe they were mistaken and leave. But the Thalmor were not fooled, and another voice rang through the sewer.

“This is Northpoint's Justiciar of Remand! Lay down your weapons and surrender, and you will be shown mercy!”

Branhucar looked at Kyndriel. The mer shook his head. When they did not comply, the justiciar called out again.

“This is your last chance! Surrender at once or you will face severe consequences!”

“Follow my lead,” whispered Branhucar, prodding her wolf for attention. The wolf answered, and in a second the sewer felt cramped. Branhucar gave a roar that echoed through the tunnels.

“No!” screamed Kyndoril. “Nooooooooo!”

Kyndriel played along. “Father! No! You killed my–”

Branhucar made sure her snarl would carry far.

The justiciars shouted in alarm. Their retreating footsteps faded into the distance. Branhucar shrank into her human form and looked back. Kyndriel stood there in disbelief. Kyndoril, giddy, covered a laugh.

“Well played,” he whispered. “Now let us leave, before they return for our corpses.”

“Oh, they'll be back as soon as they find a battlemage,” said Kyndriel. “We need to find a way out. I'm not about to die in a burning river of piss.”

–

When they'd made it a good distance from the site of the faked werewolf attack, they finally slowed to a walk. Branhucar wished they would still hurry; the place reeked and she wasn't sure how the others tolerated it. It was all she could do to try and shut it out of her mind, a near-impossible task.

“How did you know this was here?” she asked Kyndoril.

“A hunch. Any human city that ever hosted the Cyrods gained its own sewer. Which, ironically, is one of the few elven things that they insisted on sharing with Tamriel.”

And then he stopped, and Branhucar bumped into his outstretched arm. Ahead, there was a torch light. A handful of figures blocked their way. Her heart skipped... but these were shorter than Altmer, and did not wear anything resembling Aldmeri armor or robes. But the ring mail and leather didn't look promising. And who gathered in a sewer?

“Hello! We're looking for a way out of this place!” said Kyndoril.

Was that a good idea, thought Branhucar. But the men did not reach for their weapons. Instead, one of them raised a lantern for a better look.

“You look like you need more than that!” said one of the men. “You're giving the elves the slip, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're running from the Thalmor. They're crawling all over Shornhelm looking for three people who look just like you.”

“And what is your interest in this?”

“We don't like the Thalmor very much, do we, boys?”

Three voices grumbled in agreement.

“Then kindly point us out of the city,” said Kyndoril. “And consider leaving this place as well. The Thalmor could be here any minute now.”

“Aye. Well, you'd better follow us.”

This, Branhucar thought, was not wise. But there was no arguing with the chance to get away from Shornhelm, and the Gray Fox himself did not seem to have any objections to the idea. She looked at Kyndriel. The mer tapped the pommel of his stolen elven blade and gave her a soft nod.

“It'll be nice to get out of this sewer,” he muttered. “We'll figure out the rest then, hm?”

“Right. Better than waiting here,” she replied.

They walked to catch up with this new group, all of them pale-skinned, showing one or two strands of brown or blonde hair under helmets and hoods. And all of them were armed with broadswords or clubs, but wore no livery of any kind.

Were they mercenaries? Some band of rogues? The Thieves Guild, maybe? Those were questions that she bit back, hoping that Kyndoril's wit would continue to see them through, and that his and his son's skills could thwart any ill intent.

Would she be able to use her sword? She imagined Ren'dar grinning at her, daring her to be bold and use what she'd learned from him. Whiterun felt a lifetime away.

But maybe, she thought....

Maybe if summoning was as simple as offering a bit of magicka to Oblivion... and selecting something to pull from the Void....

Maybe she could find that 'nail bat' again.

–

Branhucar, luckily, had no need to summon a bound nail bat. The gang of Bretons led them out of the sewer as promised. Though it seemed as though they wandered for hours, they emerged sometime in the middle of the day. The tunnel came out in a ditch just outside the city walls, out of sight of the Shornhelm watch.

Their escorts were greeted by a man with a cart, two stout horses hitched up to pull a load of crates underneath a canvas cloth. When he noticed the new company of elves, he frowned.

“Oh, by Shor,” he said. “You're bringing this bunch?”

“Let them be,” said the one that Branhucar assumed to be their leader. “They almost didn't make it out.”

The Nord ignored him and turned to Kyndriel. “There's a nice price on your heads, you know. Man could rest for life with that.”

“If he can rest at all after throwing innocents to the Thalmor,” said Kyndriel.

“Did you do it, then?”

“Do _what_. What do the Thalmor think we did?”

“Did you explode part of Northpoint?”

“By Xarxes, no!”

“So why is it they're after you?”

“We're... just a group of prisoners who got away.”

“Awfully high price for that.”

Kyndriel shrugged. “The Thalmor don't like it when prisoners get away.”

The leader of the Breton group cut in. “And that's why we need to keep them moving. I know you don't like it, Gerring, but the sooner they get past Oldgate, the better.”

“It is early to go to Oldgate,” said Gerring. “But fine. They get us in trouble, I will blame you.”

Kyndoril looked at him. “We never asked you to take us so far, my good... sir?”

“Aves,” said the Breton. “And don't worry about it. It's the very least I can do for you three.”

–

Aves and Gerring's idea of getting them across the border was hiding them among the crates of whatever they were smuggling. With the canvas over the whole shipment, they were masked from the view of onlookers and patrols as the cart rolled across the lowlands of Rivenspire. But in the Second Seed sun, the cart began to warm, and the canvas trapped every smell. And sitting shoulder to shoulder on such a small floor, with no room to spread their legs, was not comfortable by any means.

“This is really how Ondolemar sent you to Riften?” whispered Kyndriel.

“Desperate times, son.”

“How do you still have a working spine?”

“Restoration.”

“Was the cart that bad?”

“Oh, that the cart had been the most of my problems.”

“Going to tell us about Riften yet?” asked Branhucar.

“You two keep asking for stories. I have an idea. Find me a bottle of Russafeld red and... half an ounce of moon sugar.” Kyndoril smiled. “Then I will tell the rest of my tale.”

That meant 'no'.

“Oh, fine, I'll stop prying. But it's lucky you were there,” said Branhucar. “Not sure who else would have fixed my leg.”

“Really? You and your furry friend might have figured it out eventually. I think, with a decade or so, you will have understanding you could not dream of now.”

Both of her legs ached and she tried to stretch, but it was impossible where she sat. In the cramped warmth of the cart, their only options for escaping the discomfort were talk or sleep.

“What I don't get is how you didn't wake up until you were on your way to Riften,” said Branhucar.

“That's it? I still can't figure out how that mer got me from the keep to the cart while I slept.”

“A spell like you keep using on guards?”

Kyndoril frowned. “Such a prankster, Ondolemar.”

Kyndriel gave an irritated huff. “Yes. A prankster.”

“I hope he didn't give you too much grief?”

“Well, there was that one time I was pretty convinced that he was going to kill me and Bran, and after he thrashed me I passed out, and then when I woke up he'd shattered a ton of her bones with a lightning rune.”

“WHAT?”

Gerring kicked the front of the cart.

“It's fine,” Branhucar whispered. “I mean obviously it's not fine but he didn't think I'd cast a ward. And he fixed all my bones before I even woke up.”

She wiggled her fingers to demonstrate. Kyndoril watched, then took her hands and started bending her fingers and wrists.

“They're fine, really,” she said.

“Of course,” Kyndoril whispered, testing one of her elbows. “The Divine Prosecution wasn't his first career choice, was it.... Has he healed anything else in front of you?”

Branhucar remembered that night in Understone Keep. That fateful night when the justiciars brought in a certain spy, body broken, near death.

“Yeah, Ren'dar.... The guy's an Atronach but Ondolemar used magic to heal him after a dwarven machine got him in the chest. Only thing he couldn't fix was the missing fur.”

Whatever Kyndoril said next was something in Altmeris, that made Kyndriel roll his eyes.

“What?”

“Amazing. A very rude word followed by amazing, in your tongue, that you ought not repeat in polite company.”

“Oh, you mean like 'tusking', or–”

“Yes. Stars, I need to watch my tongue around you under-centennials.”

Gerring gave a set of three knocks, and Branhucar looked at Kyndriel. He seemed to share her guess. He gave a quiet nod and held a finger up to his lips.

Their luck only needed to hold a bit longer. The cart came to a jarring stop, and Branhucar held her breath. There were voices, muffled by the canvas, but she could hear Gerring through the cloth.

“A shipment of Northpoint steel!”

There were more voices, arguing. A deeper voice, Alinoran, assuring Gerring that what he was about to do would take only a second. But nothing happened.

“Right. Well, if that is all you want, I must be going!”

Kyndriel let out a visible sigh and leaned back against one of the crates as the cart rolled on its way.

–

When they finally stopped, dusk had settled. Gerring untied the canvas and they shuffled out, blinking and wobbling on stiff legs, as if the cart had just birthed them. They were in a city, behind a stable. Around the corner, a cobblestone street ran between wooden houses clustered around a stone keep.

“Safe and sound in Alcaire,” said Gerring. “You want food, you should go to the Old Goat. Ah-ah! I don't need payment,” he said, as Kyndriel reached into his purse. “Just tell old Nathan that I said hello and he will take care of you.”

“Nathan, you said?”

“Nathan and I go back, if you catch my meaning. But by Ysmir, it's late. The Old Goat is up that road there. You'll know it when you see it.”

They left Gerring there and set off toward the inn. And Kyndriel kept slowing as they walked, turning his head this way and that to take in the castle town, tilting his head back to look at the towers of the keep.

“What are you looking at?” asked Branhucar.

“Did you know, there's a rumor that Hjalti Early-Beard was born here,” he answered.

The name rang a bell. “Who was he again?”

“Remember that ghost in Old Hroldan, who mistook me for a Hjalti? Hjalti was Tiber Septim's name before he assumed the Ruby Throne.”

“The Nords said he was from Atmora, though.”

“There are as many myths about Talos as there are of Reman or Alessia,” said Kyndriel. “It's just as likely that Hjalti was a simple Colovian Nord.”

“So why bother with Alcaire?”

“I was forced to devote years of my life to studying Tamrielic folklore about that man, three guesses why. And as far as Breton folklore goes, after Tiber Septim conquered this place, rumor spread that he was a son of Alcaire. It probably helped ease early tensions in his new Empire.”

There were suspicious faces and whispers on the side of the street. People hushed as they passed. Guards' eyes lingered on them.

“Speaking of tensions,” Branhucar whispered, slipping between Kyndriel and Kyndoril. “I'm getting a weird feeling we're not welcome here.”

“Hm. Father?”

Kyndoril smiled. “Reminds me of Markarth just before the Great War.”

Branhucar felt her insides churn. “Let's just find this inn. I feel like I could just... eat a bear.”

When they reached the Old Goat, the first thing that hit her was the smell – not the smell of food she would have expected, but something sickly sweet and acrid. It hung in the air, obvious but faint, its source nowhere to be seen.

“What a fine establishment,” said Kyndriel.

“We did get sent here by fine people,” said Kyndoril. “Though I fear Shornhelm's good mer more than a few addled persons.”

“I don't like it.”

“You don't have to. We'll be gone in the morning.”

Kyndoril went to find the innkeeper, and Branhucar nudged Kyndriel.

“What's this all about?” she asked.

“Isn't it obvious?”

“No.”

Kyndriel's eyebrows flew up, and he bent closer to hiss: “You have never smelled the fumes of skooma?”

“Is that what it is? I guess if you took Ren'dar's fondue, and then burned it to death....”

“Oh, were it that benign.”

Suddenly Kyndoril reappeared. “Good news! Nathan was _so_ happy to receive Gerring's message that we eat and stay for free tonight.”

“Not sure if they're lovers or if we've stumbled into a Thieves Guild operation.”

“Could be both, honestly. Oh!” Kyndoril lowered his voice. “Careful what you eat. I heard a drunken fellow making indecent plans for the bar's fruit display.”

“What? But....” Kyndriel leaned to the side to look. “But those are _pineapples_.”

“Just come help me carry the food. I'm not about to leave it alone down here.”

–

Kyndoril presided over the wedding. A Nord married a Breton in the back of a moving cart, while the Thalmor chased and shouted objections, and the moons wept.

And then it was dark, somewhere around midnight, perhaps. Kyndriel slept peacefully next to her, his face more relaxed than she had seen it in weeks.


	9. Duke Elouan

When they finally rejoined Kyndoril, it was late in the morning. They found him in his room, taking tea with an unexpected guest: a man displaying blue and white colors over polished steel armor.

“Ah, son,” said Kyndoril. “We're receiving company. This is Sir Lucas.”

Sir Lucas was the first of his kind who had not attempted to arrest them on sight, and something about that set Branhucar's instincts on the alert. Lucas was more interested in Kyndriel.

“I was just explaining my business to your father. I know you have only just arrived in Alcaire and you must be weary from your travels, but my lord has requested your appearance. Promptly.”

“And are you free to say why?” asked Kyndriel.

“I? I do not have the privilege of knowing. But I cannot return to the keep alone.”

“That crucial, hm. Then who is your lord?”

“That would be His Grace, Duke Elouan of Alcaire.”

If Branhucar's memory of the last year was still good, being summoned by anyone important never worked in their favor, and it was in their interest to leave before more words of importance could be imposed on them. But that was not something that could be said in front of a 'Sir' claiming to represent a duke.

“That is an unexpected honor,” said Kyndriel. “We're hardly prepared to meet the duke. Give us a few minutes?”

“Of course. My men and I will be waiting to escort you.”

They waited until the knight left to drop their polite smiles. And then Kyndoril locked the door with a wave of his hand and muffled the room.

“Well this is a fine mess we've gotten into,” he said.

“Nathan sold us out.” Kyndriel sat on the bed. “Are those two _really_ even lovers?”

“Oh, son, you can't discount love just because both parties are scum.”

Kyndriel scoffed, then glared at the window for a moment. “I suppose... we have no choice but to go. If this man really is a knight and his master is the duke, we will only anger them by ignoring his summons. I don't want to take that risk. Not now.”

“And what if it's not a duke?” asked Branhucar. “You said this was all shady when we got here. What if this is all a big... Thieves Guild con?”

Kyndoril gave a sharp laugh. “If this is the Thieves Guild, they will only gain more sorrow from this foolish plot.”

They both stared at him.

“Malacath's hairy ballbag,” said Branhucar, “what did you do in Riften?”

“Crimes. Ah, but we have no time for stories!” he added, as she opened her mouth again.

“Fine, fine,” said Kyndriel. “But what if this is another Thalmor ploy?”

“Then we beg for mercy, obviously,” said Kyndoril. “But what you should ask yourself, before anything else, is what will the duke want from you? For if this is a deception – and we have thus far been deceived – I doubt that it is so simple as Thalmor treachery.”

Kyndriel's eyes widened. “Stars. You're right. I've done nothing to make a name for myself here. Unless he's heard the rumors from Northpoint? Gods I hope not. Oh, by Xarxes, I'm not even ready to meet a noble! My hair is unwashed! My clothes still smell of sweat!”

“Son, I promise the humans are not going to sniff you.”

“Forget the smell,” said Branhucar. “It's his own fault calling us so soon.”

“Oh, fine. Unwashed sweaty meeting with a High Rock noble it is,” said Kyndriel. “Let's just go and be done with him.”

–

The Duke of Alcaire was younger than expected. There was no sign of gray on his head; in fact, his hair was still a light brown, and his blue eyes were bright. There were a few wrinkles on his face, and he sat comfortably in his padded wooden throne. Definitely young, thought Branhucar. Probably cocky. Sure to be confident if he had in fact plotted their journey from Shornhelm.

“We received your summons this morning,” said Kyndriel.

“Yes,” said Duke Elouan. “First, I wanted to make sure you were properly welcomed to my city.”

“The innkeeper was quite hospitable.”

“I should hope so. It's not every day we have the honor of hosting the Dragonborn.”

“Did you call me Dragonborn?”

Branhucar looked from him to the duke and waited for anyone else to speak.

“You are the Dragonborn, aren't you?” asked the duke.

Kyndriel's voice held an edge of anger and worry. “How do you know this?”

“A man with a throne must have ears,” said Elouan. “And news of Skyrim does not stay within its borders. I know that the Stormcloaks foolishly denied you, and that you and your company caused an... incident in Markarth.”

“It couldn't have happened to a nicer city.”

“Imagine my surprise, when I heard that an elf of your... particular description had become so sought after in the mountains of Rivenspire. And by the Thalmor, no less.”

“Actually, I was hoping you could enlighten us. You knew of me. You seem to be implying that High Rock, its kings, anyone here with spies knows of me. So, the Thalmor, how much would you say they're aware of?”

“Nothing is secret to the Thalmor. It is... a miracle that you escaped Northpoint at all, given your nature. But you don't need to worry about them in this kingdom.”

“Are there no Thalmor in these lands? The Iliac Bay is... significant. I can't imagine they'd ignore these lands.”

“You will find that the lords of this land are more traditional than the men of Rivenspire. It has been long since Wayrest last broke from the sacred truths of the Divines. The queen does not suffer the Aldmeri.”

Kyndriel said nothing.

“I speak of the Dominion's aggression, of course,” Elouan added.

“Of course. Then I take it Wayrest recovered from its recent misfortune?”

It was Elouan's turn to look quizzical.

“The sacking of fourteen years ago,” Kyndriel clarified. “I heard the news then, but nothing else.”

“Ah, yes. Queen Barynia has safeguarded the bay from corsairs and assassins. Wayrest still commands respect and fealty from Alcaire to Gavaudon. In her realm, you are safe.”

“What of Evermore?”

“I would avoid crossing the Bjoulsae River at all. The kings of the pass are strong, but the witchmen of the Reach have become unruly.”

Branhucar refrained from her remark, but Elouan must have noticed her. He fixed her with a stare that dropped a heavy weight into her gut.

“Do not mistake me,” he went on. “Branhucar, was it?”

Her blood chilled, and she was too aware that she had started to sweat again.

“You are bold,” said Elouan, “to carry such a name west of the mountains. But you clearly have the Dragonborn's trust, and we have a common enemy. So, to each of you, I offer amnesty.”

“Amnesty?” repeated Kyndriel. “Is merely being a Reachman a crime? Are elves criminal in your lands?”

“We both know you and your father are more than simple elves. I'm willing to overlook your histories. I don't see why these little details should matter here.”

_Just eat him._

No, she told the wolf, while her hands shook. It was too dangerous. Once she turned that would be the end of it, and if they lived they would only have to run again.

Kyndoril, who had been silent, stepped past his son before he could argue. “That is a rare kindness in this world, Duke of Alcaire. One that the Empire and Dominion have forgotten. In fact, it is so uncommon that I simply cannot imagine settling quietly into your peaceful city and never hearing more of it. And only because we were in need of sanctuary? With all due respect, it is nigh unimaginable.”

“I assure you, this isn't something I take lightly.”

“Nor I. So I must ask, what arrangement do you propose?”

That was a funny way of asking what the catch was, thought Branhucar. But she knew that tone. It was not at all the mocking edge he had taken with Verandis or the Thalmor in Shornhelm, but an accusation wrapped in feigned deference, a steel hammer hidden in a feather pillow.

“I have a request for the Dragonborn. Nothing absurd, nothing beyond his abilities.”

Kyndriel gave a faint sigh. “What do you need from me.”

“Thalmor aside, the troubles of High Rock aren't contained to Evermore. There have been hellish disturbances in the north, rumors of witches and enchanted woods in the west, dragons in Wrothgar, and here? Something evil is at work. The dead are rising. The roads aren't safe. Alcaire can only provide so many men and the queen's mages and priests cannot break this curse. But the Dragonborn is a vessel of Akatosh's might, the champion of his covenant with Man.”

“So you want me to break into some tombs and put the dead back to sleep.”

“I am asking you, Dragonborn, to restore order for the good of these people.”

“Hm. I can hardly refuse a request like that. But, as you see....” The Dragonborn spread his arms. “I'm a walking bag of draugr fodder right now.”

“I wasn't about to send you off without the tools you need. Armor included.”

“And Branhucar?”

“Of course we armor women! Who do you think we are?”

“I'm not saying you don't. But yes, if you're willing to supply us, and you can tell us where we're going, then I'll be happy to investigate these matters for you.”

–

Duke Elouan did not hasten to armor them and throw them out. He also didn't show interest in laying out the area's problems right away. Instead he offered them a tour of the castle. A view of the training yard where Talos had once sparred with Alcaire's swordmasters, and his own knights strove to match his prowess. A peek into the armory; there must have been enough swords for hundreds of people in there. A view of the market square; the day of the Fire Festival was close at hand and soon his Knights of the Lion would give the people a show of might like they had never witnessed.

“So does it actually involve fire, then?” asked Branhucar.

“Why? Have you never seen fire before?” asked the duke.

Kyndriel frowned, then patted her on the shoulder. “It's all right, Bran. Most people don't even know about the Stormcloaks.”

“What?”

Kyndriel rolled his eyes. And since Branhucar did not need help pretending to be offended, playing along was easy, as he sighed, “Can you not see her pain?”

The duke's eyes widened for the briefest moment. “It has nothing to do with fire. But if the sight of simple magic tricks upsets you then you should keep your distance.”

“Good to know.”

“Well, Dragonborn, you may continue exploring the rest of the keep at your leisure. Dinner will be served at sundown, and then you will be shown to your rooms for the night.”

The duke left them. And Branhucar waited for him to disappear around a corner.

“Thanks, but what was all that?” she whispered.

“Our game of insults began with mutual open contempt, before it blossomed into friendship and love,” said Kyndriel. “All others must pay dearly for such transgressions.”

“What.”

Kyndriel grinned at her. “Only I am allowed to insult you like that.”

“Ha! Is this some Altmer rule?”

“Oh, yes. You see, human couples do the same thing to each other all the time. They just call it being insufferable.”

“I dunno,” Branhucar smiled. “You're pretty good at that.”

“And you love it.”

Somewhere behind them, Kyndoril coughed.

“But do tell me if I cross any lines,” said Kyndriel. “Of course, if you ever have to tell me, then I will have failed.”

“Likewise,” said Branhucar. “So what do you think he thinks happened with the Stormcloaks?”

“I don't know, but I hope he loses sleep over it.”


	10. Memories of Wars Long Lost

Branhucar was not sure what she had expected. The Alcaire plate might have been passable, by Ghorza's standards. The smith had even had the good sense not to sabotage the wearer's sternum with a pair of ornamental breasts. But once, she had been permitted to wear Orcish armor, to get a feel for the quality of protection and comfort and freedom of movement expected of her future work. And that had spoiled her for armor.

But it was better than nothing, and it was still much lighter than she expected. When she voiced this to Kyndriel, he chuckled.

“Carrying forty pounds on your body is different from carrying it in your hands.”

“But it feels like I'm wearing nothing at all.”

“Well you've always hid incredible strength, haven't you? But we'll see how you feel after a march. And trust me, you'll hate your shield faster than your armor.”

“I almost miss that mithril coat.”

Kyndoril sighed. “Auri-El knows I miss mine terribly.”

“Bran,” said Kyndriel, “that mithril was tainted by deceit. The tracking enchantments.”

“Good point,” she said. Then, she thought, if the last person of great import to armor them and send them on their way had been foul, best to make sure the armor was clean. She searched for magicka over her, but found nothing unusual. “I don't sense anything this time.”

Then there was the bestowing of blessed weaponry with which to smite High Rock's waking dead, after which Kyndriel discreetly traded Branhucar his elven sword, stolen from Shornhelm. While she marveled at its light weight and balance and wondered what Ghorza would say about it, Kyndriel gave her unusable silver sword to Kyndoril, who had to belt his old ones to his back and seemed bemused by the whole thing.

“Any chance you've got more swords in there?” he asked as Kyndriel's eyes skimmed a leaf of paper.

“It's our marching orders. His Grace wants us to go straight to the mayor of Waridge to the east and hear their problems for ourselves. Also, he says to let you carry all the swords.”

“Joy!”

“And....” Kyndriel held out his hand, showing a gold ring with the crest of a lion's head, its mane rising like flames. “We're to bear this, to prove our good will to the people of these kingdoms if we must. Auri-El knows if they're anything like Alcaire we'll need it....”

“That's nice,” said Branhucar. “Did he also pack you any fancy magic scrolls and a clean knife?”

Kyndriel winced. “Let's just get a move on, shall we?”

And off they went, rattling like a box of Orcish cutlery, out into the springtime morning. Into throngs of Bretons excited for the festivities to come. Nobody had any mind to spare for two elves suddenly, especially not two elves coming from the duke's keep and headed out the gates of their city. Soon, the noise of the city faded, and they passed beneath the gate.

As they tramped down a worn dirt road, flanked by vibrant green beeches and oaks, Kyndriel slowed and stared into the distance. Then he stopped.

“Would you take a look at that,” he said.

Branhucar looked south and saw more road, more trees, and in the distance, what might have been the arm of a windmill.

“Nice change from endless mountains and ocean, yeah,” she said.

“No, _that_,” said Kyndriel. “Can't you see that huge....”

“You'll have to tell me what it is because I don't get it.”

“Nor I,” said Kyndoril. “What's out there?”

“How can you not see it when it stretches so high?” asked Kyndriel. “And it's so... loud. It's like a beacon. But a screaming beacon.”

“Ah! Does it only do the screaming part when you look at it?” Kyndoril asked him.

“No, it's always in my ears, but I've only just realized where it's coming from.”

“Try to shift your focus from it, child. Look at the beech trees instead. Take comfort. To the south is Balfiera, and the Adamantine Tower, where the Aedra convened and decided the fate of our world.”

“Then what is this... sound.”

“It is either et'Ada screaming their love for you or the Direnni messing with us. Or maybe as Dragonborn, you're more attuned to the magicka of the tower. Take your pick.”

“I'd rather have your nightmares.”

“Oh no you wouldn't. I'm still not over that time Tsun carried me through a cloud of stardust and told me to spin it back into a new star.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes. I ended up praying to Stuhn to get his brother off my back, but that night Shor just came to laugh. But maybe it'll get easier to ignore the tower's sound the longer we're here.”

They moved on, eventually making a left to follow the road east – the Firebrand Road, as Kyndriel said it was named. As something shifted in the wind and a familiar feeling settled in her gut, Branhucar thought of his discomfort again.

“You know, Kyn,” she said, “when we got to Erokii, I had a feeling about the place like you had about that tower. Only it was a feeling that it was bad, and cursed.”

“Because of Molag Bal, right?”

“Right. And now.... I'm getting a feeling about whatever we're about to walk into.”

“Elouan did say the land was haunted by the dead.”

“Yeah, he did. But something tells me it's... not evil, whatever's ahead. Haunted is different than cursed.”

Kyndoril was interested by this claim. “What makes you say that?”

“Just something I keep noticing,” Branhucar said. “Haunted places are awfully scary, sure. But when a place is cursed, there's... some kind of evil intent. Erokii was cursed. The Rift was....”

“Both, as I came to understand in due course.”

“What?”

“But look,” said Kyndoril, stopped them with a wave of his hand.

A hazy shape stood on the road ahead, almost invisible in the daylight. It could have been mistaken for sunbeams through the trees. But it was the image of a person that shimmered like light; a person in unmistakably Orcish plate.

“See their golden aura,” whispered Kyndoril. “They are a ghost unfettered by mortal magic or Oblivion, and we must respect them as we respect the living.”

“That makes Elouan's job harder,” Branhucar pointed out.

“Then maybe this isn't the job,” said Kyndriel. “Let's just keep walking and see what happens.”

The ghost had not moved an inch while they spoke, and did not budge from his position as they approached. When they finally drew close enough, he held up a hand.

“Halt, travelers! If you seek passage to Orsinium, turn and go back. The way is not safe.”

Branhucar spoke first. “Thanks for the warning, but Orsinium isn't where we were going. What are you doing out here?”

“Are you joking? I am a guard of Orsinium! The way ahead is dangerous. High Rock marches in these hills. Proceed at your own peril.”

“Sir,” said Branhucar, “do you know you're a ghost?”

Kyndoril stepped forward while the guard froze and stammered.

“Sir,” he tried, “your warning is appreciated. But what truly brings you here, when by your own valor and the grace of the gods, you ought to be at peaceful rest?”

“How can I rest at a time like this?” said the ghost. “I already told you. It's not safe here. Go back or deal with the consequences yourself.”

“Then we'll deal with it,” said Kyndriel. “High Rock doesn't scare me.”

“Well they should.”

But the ghost, despite his complaining, allowed them to pass him by.

–

After the ghost's warning, Branhucar trusted the woods a little less. But the first night on the road was uneventful. And so was the second.

The trees eventually thinned and gave way to rolling plains, lush with late spring grass and flowers, dotted with stone outcroppings. Where the trees had vanished, the northern backdrop of the Wrothgarian Mountains was plain to see. A stone fortress loomed in that direction, blue and white banners signaling its occupation.

“Firebrand Keep,” said Kyndriel. “Waridge should be further down this road.”

And sure enough, as they walked, wild grass was replaced by rippling fields of wheat, pastures of sheep and cattle. Of the farmhouses, some were more square and brick than expected, while their neighbors were mixtures of stone and wood with angled thatch roof.

Soon, houses crowded together and the sounds and smells of life were overwhelming. They'd come at last to town.

“We just need to find the mayor now,” said Kyndriel.

“Right, and then we need to talk the mayor into building a sewer,” whispered Branhucar.

“In due time. Now, a moment.... Pardon me, I'm looking for.... Well then.”

The trio of Breton women hurried down the road. The next man he tried brushed him off. Another muttered something about knife-ears before getting on to his business on the other side of the street.

“Had a warmer welcome in Cyrodiil,” Kyndriel said. “Excuse–”

“Out of my way, elf.”

Branhucar stepped into the man's path. “We've got business from Alcaire,” she said, watching as the Breton's eyes widened in fear. “I'll ask this nice and slow for you. Where. Is. The mayor?”

“Town hall's north of the square! That's where you'll find him! Now leave me be!”

The man hurried on his way, and Branhucar looked back at the others. “Well, there's our answer.” They looked too shocked to respond. “What? I'm not covered in fur or something?”

“Ease up on the magic, Bran,” said Kyndriel. “You feel like a thunderstorm again.”

“What? I do?” She tried tamping her magicka back down. But then, the world and its size were too much, and the sun seemed too bright.

“I'm having flashbacks to Cheydinhal,” Kyndoril added. “Now let's see if that man's babbling has gotten us anywhere.”

It had. Soon enough they found town hall, and after so many questions from the guards, they were told to wait just inside the threshold for a man named Octin Miller. A middle-aged Breton finally came to greet them, but at the sight of them, he hesitated.

“I'm sorry, what exactly is your business in Waridge?” said the mayor.

Kyndriel held out the duke's seal. “Alcaire sent us to assist with whatever it is you're dealing with, but the duke was vague on the details and referred us here.”

Octin sighed, then jerked his head toward a door and led them into a wider chamber, one full of benches, but devoid of any who might eavesdrop. The room was sparsely decorated, save for paintings of farmland, a sprawling castle town, and oddly, a dragon roaring victorious over the body of a massive serpent.

“Waridge has a ghost problem,” said Octin.

“A ghost problem, you say,” said Kyndriel. “What have your ghosts been up to?”

“You've come all this way and you haven't seen one? They're haunting the roads and fields, and they've even started coming into town at night. My people are frightened, our farmers and merchants keep asking when this will be dealt with, and now the watch are coming back afraid and claiming illness to avoid their patrols.”

“The watch? Your watch are afraid of the ghosts?”

“For good reason. Nothing can get rid of them. We've tried combat, blessed weapons, and holy water. We've had priests come from Wayrest and Shornhelm to exorcise the land.”

“So this is what the duke was talking about when he mentioned the rising dead? And is this a problem around the bay in general, or just here?”

“I know that Norvulk is plagued with troubles of its own. But their ghosts have stolen people away.”

“And... here? How dangerous are your ghosts?”

“There are complaints of dying livestock and pox among the young, the old, and the frail.”

Kyndoril shook his head. “That's not because of ghosts. That is a sign your town needs healers versed in inoculation. What we need to know is how your ghosts react to the townspeople. Have any of you been taken or assaulted by these spirits?”

“Well... no. But they are a menace to us, and an insult to the Divines.”

“So just creepy then,” said Branhucar.

“We're used to creepy and murderous,” said Kyndriel. “But if these ghosts are so stubborn the kingdom's priests cannot banish them, well, that's another challenge isn't it.”

“So you'll help us?” asked Octin.

“Duke Elouan asked us _so nicely_ that it would be impolite to refuse. But, you see, we've been on a road quite a while and we'll need food and rest before we can look into this properly.”

“If you must. Find the Dancing Dragon and tell them I sent you. They'll put you up for free. But I would suggest gathering testimony from the people tonight if you do nothing else.”

“Absolutely. And if that is all, we'll be off. You know where to find us.”

–

The three agreed quickly on one thing: the mayor was a fool if he really believed they were going to spend their night asking about cowpox and benign-if-worrisome ghosts. The rest of daylight was spent in the peace of their inn room, where they could shed their armor and the people of Waridge could not stare at them.

“Should I be worried about the pox, though,” asked Branhucar, as she inferred that the two mer had nothing to fear.

“Oh, no,” said Kyndoril. “I would be shocked if Bothela did not see to your safety while you were still a child. But should you contract such a rash, tell me at once and I will purge the illness.”

“I thought you could only do that with the really big illnesses like vampirism?”

“Stars, no. It is complicated, but turning one's magicka against infectious disease is an old practice. And you can't be rid of vampirism that easily, once you've turned.”

“Huh. I thought curing disease was all herbs and asking the gods to please not kill us yet.”

“That is the backup plan, yes.”

Kyndriel spoke up. “I don't think we can help these people with their cowpox if they're not going to trust scary elven medicine. But what do you make of their ghosts? Because if they're anything like what we saw on the road....”

“Either the priests are bad at their jobs or these ghosts are here for a good reason,” said Kyndoril. “The last time I heard of dead none could soothe, it was rumor of Tanzelwil.”

“Tanzelwil? That ruin outside Vulkhel Guard?”

“It is more than a mere ruin. It bears significance to the Aldmeri royal family. But the ancestor spirits have been hostile to all visitors for decades. And you would do well not to repeat this to anyone, let alone the Thalmor, but sometimes there are strong reasons for such events.”

“So you're saying,” said Branhucar, “that you think Waridge did something.”

“Either Waridge has done something, or from the words of our ghostly encounter, the dead are trying to deliver a message.”

“And it's probably not the dead saying, 'Screw your cows.'”

“Exactly. So, I think the good people of Waridge can wait another night while we take our rest.”

–

Most of the ghost sightings were in the hills to the east. This, Kyndriel learned from the innkeeper during the morning, while the inn was calm and reeked somewhat less of sweat and beer. This was the lead they followed. Armored again in steel and leather, and with fresh provisions, the three crept from Waridge.

They had not gone far beyond the bounds of the town when the ghostly shapes returned. But now, they were up to their knees in wild grains and grasses, and were occupied by the earth and visions only they could see. Some were more Orcish guards patrolling overgrown paths. Many were humans and elves, all busy with toils that had not ended with death. But all of them had the same warning. It was too dangerous for them to stay long, and Kynareth see them to safer lands.

“Why isn't it safe?” Kyndoril tried asking.

“High Rock is here,” said one.

“This is our home,” said another.

“You have nothing to die for.”

“You should leave while you can.”

The cryptic answers frustrated them, but the warnings of the dead and the weathered remnants of chiseled stone and old foundations had begun to paint a picture. One that only grew darker as they passed under an archway, into dense brush and grass surrounding the half-collapsed remains of a large brick building.

“The size and look of this,” said Kyndriel. “It must be an old Colovian chapel. See, there should be so many doors there in the front, and the stained-glass windows are missing. And look there....”

He pointed to a church bell, rusted and overgrown in the shadow of the ruins.

The grounds had no shortage of ghosts, but all were absorbed in prayer or gardening, and it seemed impolite to disturb them. Without other ideas, Branhucar made for the chapel.

“Divines forgive us,” Kyndoril whispered, crossing the threshold behind her.

“Is this a bad idea?” Branhucar asked.

“It is... insensitive to tread on desecrated holy ground,” he explained. “If we must, then we must also spare a thought for the heavens and the dead.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, ghosts. We're only trying to help.”

“Basically.”

Kyndriel muttered a prayer in Altmeris as he crossed the threshold. And they found the chapel empty, its tapestries and rugs eaten by moths, its wood long-since burned or rotted away. A stone altar rested at the end, seemingly untouched by time.

“Brick doesn't smash itself,” said Kyndriel, circling the altar. Then he inspected what was left of the windows. “This place was razed long ago. But this doesn't explain the ghosts.”

“Well... High Rock did the razing,” said Branhucar. “From what all the ghosts are saying.”

“We're in High Rock. Why would High Rock attack itself?”

“Why did the Stormcloaks attack Markarth?”

Kyndriel scratched his stubble. “That first ghost did mention both High Rock and Orsinium. But we're not _in_ Orsinium. We're not even in the mountains.”

“I have my own suspicions,” said Kyndoril. “But I dare not guess. Not yet. Let us stay and see if we can learn nothing else from the dead.”

–

Stay they did. They made their camp in the shelter of the chapel walls. And when the moons rose, so did the number of spirits lingering in the yard. These had no new message to give them. And they retreated to the warmth of their campfire.

That was when they saw another spirit, whose ghostly robes looked heavier than those of the monks outside. He stood facing the altar, back to them, head bowed in prayer.

And like every other ghost, he was worth a try. As they approached, he looked up, then turned and gazed at the trio in surprise. Like the guards, he was Orcish.

“You're not scared of me?” asked the ghostly priest.

“You seem all right to me,” said Branhucar. “Aside from the being dead part.”

“Being dead isn't so bad,” said the priest. “It was the dying that was hard. What are you doing here? You look like knights, but I can tell you're not from here at all.”

“Well, I'm Branhucar, and, uh, I'm from Markarth. Ghorza gra-Bagol raised me for a while as a forge apprentice. The elf in the matching armor is my husband Kyndriel, and that's his dad, Kyndoril. They're from Summerset.”

“Summerset! What brings you all the way up here?”

“There was so much political turmoil that our lives just ended up like this,” said Kyndoril.

“No regrets,” said Kyndriel. “Well, _some_ regrets. But hey. You get the idea. Can we ask your name?”

“In life, I was Gruloq, the abbot of Pariah Abbey. I served for decades.”

“How long, exactly?”

“I remember the death of King Lysandus. It was a strange time for us. The Empire sent an ancient Dunmeri healer to investigate. Never understood why, really. Later I heard he betrayed the Empire. Something about throwing something of theirs into the Iliac Bay. He got shipped to Vvardenfell for it. Shame, really. He was good company during drinks.”

“Ah, Abbot, I wonder if...,” Kyndoril began. Then he shook his head. “Actually, never mind. Sorry. Please go on.”

“But a few years before that elf came along, King Gortwog gro-Orsinium won land in High Rock, from here to the Wrothgarian Mountains. He re-opened the ancient Friendship Gate from the days of the Daggerfall Covenant and he built a new town and farmlands near Firebrand Keep. And I opened my abbey to anyone who wanted to worship the Divines, or Malacath, or Trinimac as Gortwog wanted it.

“But most of the rulers of High Rock weren't too happy about it. The Empire was the only thing keeping them on a short leash.”

Kyndriel groaned. “Oh no.... I know what came next. The Thalmor used it as an example of human treachery.”

“It's obvious, but... what happened,” asked Branhucar.

“About two-hundred years ago, when High Chancellor Ocato was murdered, the Elder Council couldn't keep Tamriel from turning on itself,” said Kyndriel. “High Rock and Hammerfell took the opportunity to attack Orsinium. The entire kingdom, all the Wrothgarian Mountains and Western Druadachs were taken by High Rock, and the Orsimeri survivors were forced to scatter.”

“And here we are,” said Gruloq. “But what brings you here?”

“That's what we wanted to ask you,” said Branhucar. “I get why you would haunt this place after what happened. But the living make it sound like you've only just come back after all this time, and the other ghosts seem worried for us. Is there something new that's wrong?”

“I've been praying to Arkay for weeks now, seeking guidance and a release from the mortal realm. But each time I think I've reached Arkay, I can only see cats. I'm ashamed to say I don't understand this sign.”

“How odd,” said Kyndoril. “He was partial to the snake before.”

“And are the living Bretons the reason you're here?” asked Gruloq. “Maybe Arkay's solution was to send someone to return us to Aetherius by strength of arms.”

“Whoa, no way,” said Branhucar.

“And why not? Rising from the grave defies Arkay's law. He would want you to strike us down.”

“I have my own religious reasons for refusing,” said Kyndoril. “You're not risen dead, for one thing. You're spirits. And to harm a peaceful spirit is akin to assault.”

“Would it make you feel better if I attacked you first?”

“No. I won't use one attack from you as a reason to chase down the rest of the dead,” said Kyndoril. “And it will solve nothing. You and your parishioners, your friends, all these lost souls are here for a reason. Let us get to the heart of it so you can take your rest again.”

“No taking the easy way out, huh,” said Gruloq. “Fine. I can respect that. But can your boss?”

“You knew?” asked Branhucar.

“Shiny new knightly armor, silver weapons, a quest to get rid of ghosts.... It was pretty obvious, kiddo.”

“Fair enough. But none of you have hurt anyone with your haunting, and he didn't say how we had to send you off.”

“The silver was pretty implicit.”

“Well if he doesn't like us taking a few more days to do this the _right_ way that's his problem.”

At this Gruloq laughed. “Well! There might be hope for us after all.”

“But... we have no idea what the right way is, if nothing's actually forcing you to be here. Are you sure there isn't some enchanted thing I can break?”

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

Branhucar felt someone tap on her shoulder.

“Why don't you two get some sleep,” said Kyndoril. “I will attempt to intercede.”

Kyndriel raised an eyebrow. “You think more praying is going to fix this?”

“I cannot say until I try.”

–

When they awoke the next morning, nothing had changed. Abbot Gruloq greeted them, then pointed them to Kyndoril, curled up on his side in front of the altar. The mer had fallen asleep during his vigil. But, somehow, he was aglow with a subtle golden light even as he snored.

“I'd let him sleep,” said Gruloq. “He passed out at sunrise but he's been like that ever since.”

“What is he doing?” Branhucar whispered. “Is he... talking to the gods?”

“I dunno. I've never seen anything like this.”

“Wonder which god it is.”

“If the gods are even speaking to him,” said Kyndriel. “Who knows. Maybe he got hold of Arkay himself?”

“Seems too direct.”

“Ooh. Maybe he's talking to Lorkhan, the heretic.”

“Kyn, you can't just call your own dad a heretic.”

“His status holds no bearing in matters of heresy. If he deals with Lorkhan, and we know he does, then he is a heretic.”

“Sorry, I don't speak cop.”

Kyndriel's ears gave a rare twitch. “Bran, please. I have never found such petty heresy to be actionable. That is why I am here. That is why I'm an aprax and not some glorified executioner.”

Kyndoril continued sleeping.

“It looks like we're going to be here a while,” said Kyndriel. “If he has only just begun to sleep.”

Branhucar looked for Gruloq again. He appeared to be sitting comfortably, as if on an invisible chair in the middle of the ruined chapel.

“You mentioned trying to talk to Arkay,” she said. “Is there anything else that's been on your mind a lot since you came back?”

“Well... all of this makes me uneasy. Killing us all was bad enough. You'd think they could do it again, but all the knights in Stormhaven clearly aren't working.”

And then it came to her. “I get it. Abbot, I... I don't think we're the ones who can fix this. You know, I think we're only making it worse.”

“Well there's no need to be hard on yourself.”

“We can't give up so easily,” said Kyndriel.

“No. And we aren't.” She looked back at Kyndoril and knew from her own sleepless nights what misery she was about to inflict. “Hey, Mara! If you're listening, wake your priest up for us!”

Kyndoril stirred, and the glow faded. Then he covered his mouth and gave a shuddering yawn. “No need to shout, my child.”

“Oh gods. It worked.”

“What worked? Are they gone?”

“No. But listen. We should just go back to Waridge.”

“Oh? Oh....” Kyndoril sat up and looked at the ghost sitting in midair. “Apologies, Abbot.”

Gruloq nodded. “Hey, at least you didn't come in here throwing holy water and salt around.”

“But what is your reasoning, Branhucar?”

“It's gonna sound strange,” she said. “But they're not here because of daedra or necromancers, there's nothing binding them, fighting them doesn't work, holy stuff doesn't work, and every single one of them has been trying to give us the same warning. This is all about High Rock and... what else, Hammerfell? Mostly High Rock, though? And where do we know that's very close by?”

Kyndoril's confusion had slowly turned into a smile. “So you think Waridge needs to solve its own haunting.”

“Well.... They tried, but isn't it obvious? They're doing it all wrong.”

“I csouldn't agree more.” Kyndoril took a comb from his things and began smoothing his hair back down. “So often, hauntings are based in that which is unresolved. You cannot solve these things with force. That includes force of will, and even love.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have asked the Aedra to take pity on these restless souls, but they are not here by any fault of their own, or by the will of the gods. And while we as outsiders can mediate, we are not party to this. Yes. Waridge must find its own answer, and all we can do is impress that upon them.”

“And then we get the hell out,” said Kyndriel. “I don't want to be around if the good people of Waridge start to think we took advantage of them.”

“Oh, agreed. But let an old mer sleep a while longer?”

“All right. You get some shut-eye.”


	11. Tombs Unremembered

As predicted, Mayor Octin was surprised to see them back so soon. They sat in that room with all its benches and paintings again, while Kyndriel spoke, assuring the mayor that they tried everything that ought to have worked in ghost banishment, before getting to the point.

“We think we're getting close to an answer,” said Kyndriel. “As to why the ghosts are here at all. But we need more information about this town.”

“The town?” said Octin. “What do we have to do with this?”

“Well, it's the center of the haunting. Help us help you.”

Octin's brow furrowed at them, but he sighed. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“How did Waridge get its start? Who built this village? And when?”

“Well, it was once a fort. There was no need for it after the Orcs were driven back into Wrothgar.”

“One-hundred and ninety years ago?”

“What's your point?”

Kyndriel sighed and shook his head. “The ghosts are all people who died at High Rock and Hammerfell's hands. They mean you no harm, but something has disturbed their rest. So now, they're trapped on Nirn by fear and grief.”

“So you can figure out that much, but you can't do anything about it?”

“We've done all we can think of, and we've spoken to the dead,” said Kyndriel. “And I think what the spirits really want is some peace of mind. If Waridge can show sympathy instead of fear, it might ease their souls and let them depart.”

“But these ghosts are a menace!”

“That attitude hasn't gotten you very far, has it?”

Octin scowled at him.

“Listen to me and think about what I'm going to say,” Kyndriel went on. “You hate these ghosts. These ghosts are stuck here in fear of you. Stop giving them reasons to fear, and your problem is solved. And maybe think about how you and your town are treating the living, while you're at it. If I were an observant ghost, I'd be appalled too.”

“You....”

“If you're going to insist I expel them by force, you know it's been tried before and hasn't worked.”

“Then where does that leave us?”

“Where you were a few days ago, if you won't trust me. Farewell, Mayor,” said Kyndriel, and turned to lead them out of the town hall.

“You weren't hired to bring me this!”

“Oh, please, you didn't hire us at all. Now we bid you good day!”

“But–”

Branhucar made a gesture over her shoulder. “That was elvish for _piss off_.”

“I think we've made our point,” whispered Kyndriel, while the sounds of the fuming mayor echoed behind them.

“I don't think we have. Those ghosts are gonna be disappointed.”

“I know. I wonder if the mayor was the best person to leave our advice with.”

–

Their last act, before making a swift exit from Waridge, was making for the church and giving a quick word of advice to the priest. They left him there, confused and muttering about the will of Akatosh, and stole back through the eastern hills and into the evening.

When night fell, they walked a little longer, led by Kyndoril's eyes and what light they had from the moons. And when he was satisfied that they'd put enough distance between themselves and town, he led them to relative shelter in the rocky outcroppings and trees that the highlands had to offer.

“If my understanding is correct, we should be nearing Norvulk,” said Kyndriel. “Well, Bran. Is this region haunted, or cursed?”

Branhucar thought about this, and pretended to hum thoughtfully while she asked her non-daedric wolf if she had any opinions. She had none other than that she needed to eat a steak before she keeled over like a dog, and the squirrels and badgers hiding nearby would make poor meals for very different reasons.

“Needs more goats,” said Branhucar.

“What?”

“Huh? I mean no. It's neither.”

“That's odd. Octin mentioned a ghost problem here.”

“Octin was wrong about his own ghosts,” she yawned.

“That may be so. But I'm getting a bad feeling.”

“Those are always worse at night.”

“Aren't they?”

Kyndoril's glowing eyes moved up to look at them. “Would it help at all if I warded this ground?”

“Wouldn't hurt,” said Kyndriel. “Not like this place is Erokii, at least.”

–

And it wasn't. They slept well through the night and awoke unharmed, if stiff and sore.

“Two stars,” said Kyndriel as he stretched his legs. “Uncomfortable. Dirt-scented. Damp. Very Middle Dawn. No undead attack in the night at least.”

“Amateur,” said Kyndoril. “You fail to appreciate the complexities of finding accommodation in the wilderness for even one person, let alone three. This is at least two-and-a-half.”

The Dragonborn gave a fake scoff, and they continued on their march eastward. Despite the rumors of more ghosts, none greeted them on the road or walked the hills that they could see. And around midday, they came once more to town.

A human guard stopped them immediately.

“What business do you have in Norvulk?”

The Dragonborn, the most important business-haver among them, spoke for them again.

“We come from Alcaire,” said Kyndriel. “We've just been through Waridge and we heard this town has a ghost problem. We're here to help.”

“Really? If that's the case you'd better go and find the mayor. She'll be in her manor. But be sure to be off the street by sundown.”

“Does Norvulk have a curfew, or is this about the ghosts?”

“You'll find out more from the mayor.”

The mayor herself wasn't difficult to track down. It was a simple matter of asking for directions, and then following the streets to a walled-off building, one with a pair of guards posted at its gate. Convincing the guards that they were there for good reasons was another matter.

“Alcaire,” repeated the first guard. “These lands are the realm of Queen Barynia. What business does your duke have with us?”

“I do not know anything of Elouan's business with Wayrest or Norvulk,” said Kyndriel. “But I happened through his city and he asked me to lend my assistance to High Rock. I heard rumors of ghosts and disappearances while passing through Waridge. If the rumors have no truth, I can be on my way.”

The guards looked at each other.

“The mayor will want to speak to you,” said the first guard. “But you will wait here to be escorted to her.”

Despite all the fuss, Mayor Ganise Manteau seemed to be a practical woman. Practical, but perhaps disorganized. The guards who came for them led them into a makeshift office cluttered with books and bundles of papers, and it wasn't clear whether she had been eating at her desk or working at her dining table.

“Oh, just grab a seat anywhere,” said the mayor. “Don't mind the mess. This is hardly a good place to work....”

Kyndriel spotted a chair that had not yet been repurposed as a shelf and offered it to Branhucar, while Kyndoril made himself comfortable at the foot of a wooden staircase.

“You don't usually operate from your own house?” asked Kyndriel.

“The constable _insisted_,” said the mayor. “You are here about our ghosts, right?”

“We are. Between us we have decades of experience with the risen dead.”

Branhucar thought of her months on the road in Skyrim, and how Kyndriel had perhaps one more adventure into a barrow than she did, then looked at Kyndoril. He smiled.

“And is that why Elouan sent you?” asked Ganise.

“As I said to your guards, we heard rumors of the trouble in Norvulk and thought to investigate during our travels. But Elouan never mentioned your town by name.”

“I see.”

“We mean no offense,” said Kyndriel. “We're new to these lands. We know little of Alcaire or Norvulk. But we could not stomach the thought of the dead spiriting innocents away.”

“Very well. And what experience do you have with the dead?”

“I've dealt with draugr and their dragon priests, in Skyrim. Both of us have,” said Kyndriel, gesturing to Branhucar. “As for my father....”

“Zombies, soul-shriven, draugr, ghosts, vampires, liches, wispmothers, oh, and leimenids,” said Kyndoril, clearly enjoying their growing horror and awe. “Skeletons when I'm lucky. Gigantic constructs made of bones or flesh when I'm not.”

“Tell us more,” Branhucar mouthed.

Kyndoril ignored her. “And out of all of these, ghosts can be the least of one's fears or the most problematic of hauntings. The fact that they're kidnapping people tells me we're dealing with the more difficult variety of spirits.”

“Enlighten me,” said Ganise.

“Certainly!” said Kyndoril, while Ganise rolled her eyes. “Your typical malign ghost wants nothing to do with the living. When the dead go out of their way to interfere in our lives, they have a motive, a rationale. Er, this town has no involvement in recent war, does it?”

“Our humble town bolsters the Legion's ranks as do all under the Empire,” said Ganise.

“Somehow I don't think the Great War would bring vengeful ghosts here,” said Kyndriel. “The war never came this far north. But are there any other particular rumors about the ghosts? We can start there.”

“I've been told that my people disappear at night, when the moons are high.”

“Who were the victims?”

“We've lost a blacksmith, a stable hand, an herbalist, and a handful of the watch,” said Ganise. “Last week a grocer was taken from us. There were others. At least twenty more.”

“Did the victims have anything in common?”

“Only that they have all disappeared in the dark, without any sign of a fight.”

“And... are there suspects?”

“Half the people believe in ghosts. The rest are starting to whisper about the Thalmor.”

Kyndriel said nothing.

“Well,” said Kyndoril, “does your town host the Thalmor?”

“It's been some time since we've dealt with them,” said Ganise. “They came for our relics and our priest when I was young, after the war ended. They like to send reminders, but they have not come here since.”

“Lucky you,” said Branhucar. “I grew up surrounded by them.”

“In Evermore, perhaps...?”

“No?” said Branhucar. Something about the mayor's inquisitive look bothered her. “I'm from Markarth.”

Ganise paled somewhat. “Ah. I see.”

“One more question,” said Kyndriel. “Everyone's talking about ghosts, but with all this talk of Thalmor, I wonder: has anyone seen a ghost? Does anyone know where they're coming from?”

“Well, Norvulk was built around an Ayleid ruin,” said Ganise, clearly relieved to return to the topic of the malevolent undead. “That's where we took our name. Some of our... more excitable citizens think that the Ayleids are getting restless and taking revenge.”

“There's our starting point,” said Kyndoril. “I know a thing or two about irate Ayleids.”

“If you search the ruin at this hour, return quickly and be at the inn by nightfall,” said Ganise. “The rumors of the dangerous night have been proven true.”

–

“It's about time you two saw a _nice_ Ayleid ruin, isn't it?” said Kyndoril.

They followed him along a disused path, one that wound up a hill and around the side. It was overgrown, only apparent from the laying of long stones at their feet, the jutting of weathered brick that might have once been part of some wall. A canopy of tree boughs covered their ascent.

“Ruins with ghosts aren't that nice,” said Branhucar.

“They can be if the ghosts are of a good temperament. Now, speaking of that.... Branhucar, I can't tell you how these Ayleids will react to a human, even a half-elven one, even one married to a mer. Be respectful, but be on your guard.”

“Something about this doesn't feel right,” said Kyndriel. “Ayleid cities? In this part High Rock?”

“Do you know of the plight of Nenalata?”

“I do, but I believe King Dynar settled in the eastern realms.”

“Perhaps other Ayleids came here and left this place behind.”

“That may be. But if these dead are as hostile as the town believes, I don't think they'll tell us who they are.”

They came to a carved stone structure jutting out of the hill, and a simple granite doorway leading in. Unlike the heavy wood and iron doors of Skyrim's barrows, this one needed to be slid to the side: a task that Kyndoril accomplished while they stood back and waited for something dreadful to come springing from the depths of the hill. When nothing ambushed them, Kyndoril summoned a golden light and led them inside.

More white stone steps cut down into the earth. And the deeper they walked, the more the air cooled.

“Why are all these elven ruins underground?” Branhucar asked.

“I'll let you in on a secret,” said Kyndoril. “We developed a fondness for basements in the isles. It saves valuable land above ground, and it is good to retreat to cool comfort when the radiance of Magnus is overpowering. Also, the remains above the surface get destroyed first, whether by the elements or men. What is underground is simply buried.”

“That's... true. Might explain some things about Skyrim.”

“Hm?”

“All that travel.... And I've never seen anything like this.”

“I know the location of one lost Falmeri city,” said Kyndoril. “There is a human fortress north of Riften. Perhaps you passed through it on your way to my temple?”

“Greenwall?” asked Kyndriel.

“I will tell you this. I once tracked a wispmother to its depths. The pursuit led me into some labyrinth that was half marble and brass, half cavern. Once I understood what I'd found, I....”

He stopped, where they had come to a balcony overlooked a large chamber. Stairs led down to what might have been shrines. The whole place was bathed in an orange glow, coming from sconces around the walls.

“What did you do?” asked Kyndriel.

“I prayed for intervention from the Divines,” said Kyndoril, “but it took many days, because the spirit who had become the wispmother was slow to trust me. As she was right to. You should never trust someone who's been sent to kill you. Of course, that tale does not suit our purpose here.”

They reached the bottom of room and found many shelves of marble against the walls, iron doors guarding troves of books. Ruined books. Stepping closer revealed shriveled spines and covers, faded pages falling out of their bindings.

“Hey Kyn,” said Branhucar. “Come look at these.”

Kyndriel eyed what was left of the spines, and after a moment, he muttered something in Altmeris. “Well, well.... Either our Ayleids were quite worldly, or someone else came here long ago. Some of this collection was Nordic. Some of the letters are used in common Tamrielic.”

“So, humans came along?”

“Humans, or someone who wanted to collect and preserve human writings.” He went on to examine the other shelves. And after a minute, he spoke again. “It's funny, what is lost to time, and what remains despite it. But... that's not what we're searching for, is it.”

Kyndoril, who had not been seen leaving, returned from the other side of the chamber.

“No signs of life back there,” he said. “And nothing here either, I take it?”

“Nothing but a post-Ayleid library,” said Kyndriel. “I don't think our missing will care for that.”

They moved on, up the stairs opposite the entrance, through more hallways lit with what became apparent as glassy orange stone. Culanda, Kyndoril called it. Just one variety of meteoric glass, used by the ancients and modern mer alike. It had so many uses, but mimicking the glow of a natural flame was the most common and pleasant among them. Culanda lighting could not start a fire and did not have a lifespan limited to hours.

After an hour of searching, inspecting every corner of the place, they came to a spacious chamber bathed in a soft blue instead. The glow came from a magical light above a circular shrine, on a dais in the center of the room.

“Well, here we go,” said Kyndoril. “Stay close to me.”

“Is that dangerous?” Branhucar asked.

“The Aetherial well? Not at all,” he said, as he stepped closer.

He addressed someone that she couldn't see, in a form of elvish that he had only used when recounting his adventures in Cyrodiil. And the unseen dread hanging over Norvulk revealed itself as countless ghosts. They were surrounded.

“Why do you speak to us in that arrogant tongue?” demanded one of the ghosts, in plain Tamrielic.

So they weren't Ayleids, Branhucar thought. And if it hadn't been for the bird helms and pauldrons a few of them wore, she might have mistaken them for Nords or tall Bretons at first glance.

Kyndoril looked at them all, then offered a small bow. “I'm starting to realize that I've been misinformed about the nature of this place. I apologize.”

“Misinformed? Who sent you here?”

“The townspeople,” said Kyndriel. “Were you... aware that you had a town on your doorstep?”

“We are aware of Wind Keep.”

“Wind Keep? That's all?”

“What is this about? Explain yourselves.”

Kyndriel and his father traded looks. Looks that both read: We put our foot in it. Branhucar decided to step forward.

“We don't mean any offense. But there's a whole other town here now, and something bad is going on there. We offered to help them investigate.”

“And what does this have to do with our temple?”

“Well, um, please don't be alarmed. But half of them think they're being haunted. We came here to find the truth.”

“The ingratitude! The Bretons are our descendants. Our kin. We stood and died among them when the Alessians ravaged this land. What cause do they have to see us as their enemy?”

Kyndoril spoke again. “Regrettably, the Alessian doctrines did take hold here. High Rock has come to distrust elves, and now the townspeople have started rumors of Ayleid revenge.”

“Ayleids,” repeated the ghost. “Have I not made myself clear?”

“You are clearly not Ayleids,” said Kyndoril. “But when we heard rumors of ghostly kidnappings, we nearly believed it. We had to come. I hope you understand.”

“I grow weary of this,” said the ghost. “Begone from this place.”

“We will leave you in peace. But, please. I must ask–”

“Have you ears?”

The room grew heavy with ghostly anger, the likes of which Branhucar had not felt since Skyrim. It was past time to leave. She offered a bow, one acknowledged by the ghost with a small nod, and the rest parted to let her pass, revealing a door further on. She walked slowly while Kyndoril pressed on behind her.

“I only ask another minute of your patience,” said Kyndoril. “Please, have you seen anything? Has anyone else come here recently?”

“No, but if you do not have the sense to leave like your human friend, you will be the first to disappear by my will.”

Branhucar looked back to see Kyndoril pleading in Altmeris, with Kyndriel tugging his arm. “Father, we should go....”

The ghost responded in _angry_ Altmeris, snarling something that made both elves jump and take off crying frantic apologies in elvish. They passed her and did not look back.

But the ghosts, for their anger, did not touch her. They only watched.

“Do I need to repeat myself in your tongue?” asked the first ghost, sounding more tired than anything.

“Nope. I'm going now. Sorry for them.”

“You choose strange company. Farewell, child of the mountains.”

“Thanks. Have a good rest?”

And that was good enough for the ghosts. They vanished, leaving Branhucar to run to catch up with the others. There was only one way they could have run, into a curved hall. Their footsteps were not too far ahead....

She nearly crashed into the Dragonborn.

“Bran!” he exclaimed. “I'm so sorry, I only just realized you weren't right there!”

“It's fine, Kyn. Where's your dad?”

They found him straining to pry an elven gate open with his bare hands. Branhucar watched this for a moment, then noticed the a block of stone protruding from the wall, marked with glowing cut welkynd. She pressed it and the gate came free, sending Kyndoril toppling back. As soon as he recovered from being a heap on the floor, he led them through the gate and back up the stairs, into the warm afternoon light.


	12. The Mystery of Norvulk

They had learned only a little from venturing into Norvulk's ruins: not only were the ghosts there not Ayleids, but they took offense to being compared with the elves of Cyrodiil. Perhaps, Kyndoril speculated, it was because the Ayleids had a reputation for cruelty and daedra worship. But there was no sense dwelling on them.

The ghosts were not the cause of Norvulk's woes. And if there were no other ghosts to blame, that led them to a more frightening conclusion. After a night spent recovering from their adventure at Norvulk's inn, they shared their fears with Ganise Manteau.

“It's not the dead,” said Kyndriel. “The ghosts in the ruins are merely local ancestor spirits. Your town is being preyed upon by the living.”

“I feared as much,” said Ganise, from behind her wall of books and papers. “I'm afraid I can't use you.”

“Oh?”

“I need people who know how to investigate crimes,” said the mayor. “Not a trio of ghost hunters.”

“I think you will find me more than capable in these matters,” said Kyndriel. “My father knows the dead. I have battled the dead. But this is where I excel.”

“Really.”

“I once investigated crimes of varying nature,” said Kyndriel, while Branhucar tried not to imagine him in eagle armor. “I left that line of work, but I don't wish to turn my back on Norvulk. Let me speak to your constable, let me know the exact details about the disappearances, and I will expose the evil festering in this town to the light of Auri-El.”

He had overdone it. Ganise eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and anxiety. “Just to be clear, you were sent by Duke Elouan, right?”

Kyndriel handed her the ring from Alcaire, and she examined it before handing it back.

“Whatever you say,” Ganise sighed. “Wait a moment, and I'll give you a list of the missing.”

As she opened a drawer, thumbed through several pages, and began withdrawing some, Branhucar thought that she must have been expecting this. But she did not seem enthused to give a valuable copy to a mer who had just announced his intentions in the manner of a Thalmor justiciar.

Kyndriel's eyes scanned each name, and his brow wrinkled. Then he offered a smile. “I'll see what I can turn up.”

–

Their first stop was an impromptu meeting with the captain of the guard. The discussion was short. The captain acknowledged that some of his men had vanished, but was insulted when Kyndriel pressed him on whether there was any sign they'd been taken by force.

Of course it had to be forced, the captain told them. Not a single one of his men would go down without a fight. And if they had no important business, they should get going.

“Touchy,” said Kyndoril, as Kyndriel led them off in another direction.

“And unhelpful,” said Kyndriel. “Let's see if we can't learn something about poor Artus instead.”

“Artus?” Branhucar repeated.

“A blacksmith.”

They eventually spotted a distinct anvil and hammer sign hanging over a door near the town square. The shop at first seemed empty, but sound of the bell above the door brought a woman out of a back room. There was a weary look about her, in the way she moved, and in the shadows under her eyes, and in the hesitation in her voice as she greeted them.

“Here to buy?”

Kyndriel looked around, at the shelves stocked with hammers, the boxes of nails, the iron kettles and pans. Then he turned back to the shopkeeper.

“I'm here on other business,” he said. “Do you know Artus?”

“Well, you could say that. He's... he was my husband.”

“I see. If you can spare a few minutes, the mayor sent us here, regarding him.”

The woman bit her lip. “Did someone find him?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Kyndriel. “But the mayor is giving us the chance to look into this matter. We would very much like to find out where he is, and what happened. If you have the time to talk, it could help us.”

The woman looked at them, then the shop, then sighed. “Well, come and sit down. It's not like anyone's coming today anyway.”

Behind the shop space was a quiet sitting room, with a crackling fireplace, a dining table, and a cushioned bench. A small pot of stew bubbled in front of the fire.

“Name's Janille,” said the woman. “I've run this shop since I married Artus. But ever since he went missing, our business has started to dry up.”

“You seem to have a full stock of useful things,” said Kyndriel. “Nobody wants them now?”

“People still come for the simple things, sometimes,” said Janille. “But the best business came from the farms, and the guards. They need things made and repaired all the time. Without Artus here to handle their orders, there just isn't business.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you more.”

“All right.”

“How long ago was his disappearance?”

“Feels like a year already. But, it was just in Rain's Hand. We'd just been talking about the pox in Waridge. We heard there were rumors about Peryite and his cult.”

“Not quite two months, then,” said Kyndriel. “So, with that time in your mind, what else do you remember? Did he go anywhere new, meet someone he didn't know, or do anything... unusual for him?”

“I.... No. Do ghosts even care about those things?”

Kyndriel paused and bit the corner of his lip. “Janille.... We've searched the ruins. It is true there are old elven ghosts there, but we found no sign of anyone else. The spirits mean no harm to Norvulk, or your husband.”

“But who else could it be?” Janille exclaimed.

“That's what we need to find out,” said Kyndriel. “For Artus and everyone else.”

“Right. I'm sorry. I....”

“Don't worry about it. So, it sounds like Artus had an ordinary day just before he vanished?”

“Well... yes. One morning he left for his workshop. And then he didn't come back.”

“And... the day before that?”

“He delivered some orders. That's all I can remember.”

“Well, we're staying in town a while. Call on us at the inn if anything else comes to mind, all right? Just ask for Kyndriel.”

“Right. Akatosh keep you.”

They left Janille with a word of encouragement. But when they were out on the street and the door had shut, Kyndriel's smile faded.

“That is what we in the business call concealment,” he muttered.

Kyndoril looked at him. “I keep forgetting that about you. But you're right.”

Branhucar started walking so they wouldn't argue over it in front of Janille's shop. When they had gone a fair distance, she asked, “You don't honestly suspect her, do you?”

“Not of kidnapping,” said Kyndriel. “Not when the husband is far from the only victim.”

“So where are we headed next?”

“Stables. We're asking after one Nagoth.”

Finding the stables meant walking a while through the town, to where the noise of the market started to fade. On quieter streets lined with towering houses, they mostly heard the wind, barking dogs, and the occasional clacking of a window shutter or the turning of a cart's wheels.

But the further they walked, the harder it was to ignore the dull feeling of unease that settled into her chest. And as they approached the town gates, she turned for a look back. And saw nothing, except for a few of the townsfolk walking in other directions, chatting, minding their own business.

“Something the matter?” asked Kyndriel.

Branhucar shrugged and turned back around. “Whole thing feels off.”

“One thing at a time.”

–

“That Orc was too big to get dragged off and smart enough not to bother the ghosts. You ask me, he got ideas about going somewhere better than this dump.”

The Breton stablemaster didn't seem to have a very high opinion of the missing Nagoth. But he was a decent enough host, and invited them to crowd around the low table in his house while they spoke.

“And why would he just leave?” asked Kyndriel.

“Look, if it's gotta be between my best worker getting kidnapped or running off of his own accord, I'd rather he just packed up and left. But I just don't know why. I paid him plenty and he was the only one besides me who could handle the General.”

“The General? Are we still talking about horses?”

“Yeah,” said the stablemaster. “And he's been downright depressed since he left.”

Kyndoril spoke up. “Horses are clever and loyal creatures. Nagoth must have been fond of him, for the horse to grieve so.”

“You're damn right he was. Spent hours working with him when he could have been doing anything else.”

“Sir,” said Kyndriel, “I know this is a terrible possibility, but if Nagoth was happy to be here and nobody else has a clue where he's gone, we need to consider that he didn't go of his own will.”

“You think I don't know that?”

“I know you know that. And I'm sorry,” said Kyndriel. “Listen. We just have a few questions for you, and then we'll be on our way.”

“Fine. Shoot.”

“When did Nagoth vanish?”

“Back in Rain's Hand,” said the stablemaster. “Was just after Peryite's day. Nagoth helped the doctor check the animals over, just to be sure they were safe.”

“I see. Anything interesting happen on that day?”

“It was slow. Small group of knights came in from Alcaire, said they needed work done, would you believe it?”

“Really? What sort of work?”

“Nothing much. Horses needed reshoeing and I sent Nagoth to fetch the blacksmith. Knights ate half my food, but I got paid good enough for the job so it wasn't a huge loss.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, they wouldn't let Nagoth touch their horses. Said they wanted a real professional. Tried to tell them Nagoth's the best we got, but I ended up working on all eight hooves myself.”

“Well that's rude. How'd Nagoth take it?”

“Said it was fine with him and it was getting too hot out. He stayed around to chat with Artus though.”

“Artus? As in, Artus the blacksmith?”

The stablemaster's face fell. “Ah. Shit. You've been asking after him too, then? Janille all right?”

“As right as she can be, given the circumstances,” said Kyndriel. “Do you remember anything else about the day? Anything at all?”

“No, nothing else weird. Artus went back to his shop, Nagoth went home for supper, and the next thing I know, they're both gone.”

–

Kyndriel waited until they were back into the city to speak, but when he felt comfortable at last, it was in hurried, hushed tones. But it was a task to keep up with his words when he could scarcely be kept up with on foot.

“Both of them, right after the same day,” he said. “There's a connection and I want answers.”

“Slow down,” said Kyndoril.

“Do you disagree?”

“You're making poor Branhucar jog.”

Kyndriel stopped, and Branhucar staggered trying not to crash into his back.

“You and your legs, both of you,” she said. “Where are we going now?”

“There's a grocer,” said Kyndriel. “A woman named Bernice this time. This says her shop is around here somewhere.”

That somewhere was a row of shops near the square. They found a notice, ink faded, nailed to the door. The door was locked, and the sign read: “This establishment is closed until further notice.”

“Allow me,” said Kyndoril. He raised a fist and knocked on the door. After a moment, and the slightest gesture of his hand, he eased the door open. “After you.”

When they were in, Kyndoril shut and locked the door behind them, and cast a small golden light on an odd scene. The shelves had been cleaned out, leaving several overturned crates, baskets, and barrels behind. A sickly sweet stench made it plain that whoever had cleared the shop had missed something.

“Hello?” Kyndriel called. “Is anyone in here?”

Branhucar felt a small wave of magicka, but Kyndoril shook his head. “Not a soul but us. I _can_ do that next time, you know.”

“Seems our grocer was unmarried, or else had no family to take over....”

Kyndoril walked to the counter, peered behind, and then rummaged underneath it.

“Well, either it's upstairs, or someone robbed Bernice of her profits while they were here,” he said. “But more importantly....”

He held up a leather-bound book.

“Excellent.”

“What've you got?” asked Branhucar. “Wait, that's her ledger?”

“Ah! You remember Ghorza making note of everything she ever sold, right?” asked Kyndriel. “This isn't going to tell us everything, but it's insightful in its own ways.”

Kyndoril flipped through the ledger's pages. “Did you know that fall produce is packed in frost salt to make sure it keeps over the winter? I saw enough of it myself at home, but it can get expensive....”

“Frost salt?”

“Most of these pages are unremarkable,” said Kyndoril. “But there are some interesting patterns in here. Looks like poor Bernice was taking a loss on frost salt and apples. In bulk.”

“Who's the buyer?”

“Our friends in the watch, of course. Guards are so demanding.”

“Of course. What's the last date?”

“In the middle of Second Seed. Must have been when we were hiding in Shornhelm. The entries around then are many and reasonable. She had a nice business going here until the end.”

Kyndriel focused for a moment, then called a small light of his own to hand. “I'm going to keep looking.”

He passed the counter and entered the back room, then bent over and gingerly lifted something from the floor. He shook it a few times, blew on it, and then held it up for a close look. Branhucar walked over to him and tried read from his side. He noticed, and handed her the half-scorched paper.

“Oh boy, what's this,” said Branhucar. She glanced over it, then frowned at its tone, then the fact that the charred edges of what remained didn't let her read more. “'Bernice.... I understand it... keep a business... fees... been reasonable... sort out... tomorrow and....' Oh gods.... Is this a threat?”

“Threats have a habit of coming in the form of polite business letters,” said Kyndriel. “May I? It is our one precious scrap of evidence, aside from that ledger, now that I think of it.”

“Ghosts don't send threats over business, do they.”

“Well, not in my experience. Not that I am the ghost hunter among us.”

He returned to the counter, searched through a drawer, and found an envelope. Once the evidence was safe inside, he tucked it into his bag. There was just one more matter: whatever was up those stairs up out of the back room.

“I've got a bad feeling,” said Branhucar.

“That's why I'm here,” said Kyndriel. “I'll go first. Father, keep watching the door?”

“Nobody is coming in behind us,” Kyndoril told them. “Yell if you need backup.”

Upstairs was reason to shout. Kyndriel froze in the doorway, and despite the reassurance that the place was empty, his reached back for his shield, and held it firmly as he stepped over the threshold.

The room had been sacked. Bedsheets had been torn clean away, a chair lay overturned on the floor, and several drawers were partly open. A rug sat askew. Kyndriel pushed it aside with his foot, and revealed a large dark stain in the wood.

“Stendarr's horn,” Kyndriel moaned. “This... isn't enough for someone to have bled out, but....”

“I thought the mayor said there weren't any struggles,” said Branhucar.

“She did,” said Kyndriel. “But.... Damn it, I was a justiciar, not a revelator!”

“A what now?”

“I mean I can't use magic to find out who did _this_,” said Kyndriel, waving at the old blood spatter. “I was just a guard! A guard trained to... to see heresy and expose it. I don't do death-seeing magic. I look for suspicious people and signs of Talos.”

Branhucar reached up to pat him on the shoulder. “And you're not a justiciar anymore. So what if you don't do fancy elf cop magic? You're still clever and that blood on the floor is still evidence.”

“So it is. But I would rather _know_.”

“Then let's get your dad in on this and get out of here,” said Branhucar. “Who're we visiting next?”

Kyndriel sighed. “Fine. We're after an herbalist. She should have been close by.”

–

The herbalist's home was just a street away. Kyndriel hurried them along, took a second to compose himself before opening the door, and the flinched at the sight of a living breathing person.

A young Breton looked up from his reading. He had a thin beard, bags under his eyes, and, Branhucar noticed, a thick scent of sweet herbs and spices around him.

“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing them nervously.

“We're just here to talk about Murielle,” said Kyndriel. “The mayor sent us.”

“Oh. Yes. Murielle was my grandmother. Uh, I'm Geon.”

“We'll try not to take too much of your time. As you might know, your grandmother wasn't the only person to go missing recently.”

“Yeah, I've heard. She was crushed when Nagoth disappeared. Nice guy.”

“How did Murielle know Nagoth?”

“She didn't just treat people. She also treated animals. Nagoth used to come by for herbs to help soothe the older horses.”

“What sort of herbs?”

“The kind you can't take if you're not a horse. People have tried, in case you're getting ideas.”

“We'll stick to moon sugar,” said Kyndoril.

Geon almost laughed. “Please, I'm supposed to warn against that too.”

“So are you also an herbalist?” Kyndriel asked.

“Yes, but I'm nothing like she was. She knew how to stop plagues and reset bones and put people to sleep so they never knew she was doing anything. I have no idea where she acquired her... supplies for such things.”

“Oh, I'm sure if you arrange a meeting with the Baandari you'll find out,” said Kyndoril. “Seriously. Pay an honest Baandari merchant or a reputable alchemist, and you'll know it's not laced with salt or worse – deathbell.”

“I'll keep that in mind?”

Kyndriel cleared his throat. “Geon, I know this may be difficult, but what do you know about your grandmother's activities before she disappeared? Have you a ledger, or anything of note?”

“Well.... I had a read through her last records. There were a few cases of flu, and some pox in people coming from the west. She demanded quarantine of the sick and gave them medicine. Had one older fellow insist on being bled. She told him his blood being inside him was the only thing keeping him alive. He wasn't happy about it, but he got better.”

“Anything else? Nothing remarkable at all?”

“Ah.... Now that you mention remarkable.... A few days into Second Seed, she took a patient who had a horrible gash in his arm. The wound refused to close. Stitches barely helped.”

“Did he say what caused the wound?”

“No. He refused. My grandmother was deeply troubled when he died a few days later. I'm not sure if this would have helped her in any way, but I think her patient had problems with his body before he was injured.”

“Sure,” said Branhucar. “But he would have been fine if he hadn't been stabbed, right?”

“That goes without saying, but a few unlucky people bleed quite easily. Most of us scab and mend, even if it takes a lot of stitching. He did not, even with all the care she could give him.”

“What happened after he died?” Kyndriel asked.

“Well, she was angry. She went to ask around for a blacksmith who knows what could have made such a wound, nearly gave Janille a heart attack, and went to hound the guards. They said they'd handle things.”

“The guards said they'd handle things,” repeated Branhucar, mind filling with images of Markarth. “That so.”

“Well if you're here you must know how it is,” said Geon. “They can't catch these so-called ghosts, and they're not going to find this murderer. I think they're tired of being asked to.”

“I've a hunch,” said Kyndriel. “Thank you for your assistance, Geon. Divines keep you.”

“Oh? Well... good luck. Hope you find something.”

Branhucar and Kyndoril followed him out, into a heavy gray evening. And once again, Kyndriel walked as though he intended to outpace them. As she puffed after him, Branhucar heard a new urgency in his voice.

“Father, we may have need of your silver tongue.”

“Dare I ask?” said Kyndoril.

“I left it alone earlier. It was only kind. We're going to have to be persuasive and honestly you're the one best suited to speak to a grieving widow.”

“I don't get a break from playing the priest, do I?”

“Not today, you heathen.”

After another painful stretch, they had returned to the door of Janille's shop. And Kyndriel opened it without delay, startling both Janille and a customer of hers. The man paid for his new ladle and scurried away, while Janille eyed them, anxious.

“I'm closing up for the night,” she said.

“We're here on different business,” said Kyndriel. “If you would speak to us again.”

“Can't it wait until tomorrow?”

“We're loathe to trouble you,” Kyndoril said. His voice held a softened tone that Branhucar remembered from Riften. “And we would wait if only we could. But this is a matter of urgency, and you are the best hope we have.”

“I.... But.... Look, if this is about Artus–”

“It is. I know it is difficult, Janille. I have felt the heartbreak of losing love and family many times. And that is why I must ask you, again, to speak openly with us.”

“I....” Janille's face turned to the door. “I can't....”

“Are you afraid of being overheard?”

Janille didn't answer.

“Oh, dear. What about this. If I could make absolutely sure that no one else could hear, would you speak with us?”

“No, no. I.... What are you saying? How am I supposed to believe you?”

Kyndoril glanced at the back room, then smiled. “A demonstration? If you two would go in there, wait for me to cast my spell, and then... well, shout whatever you like.”

“You want me to what,” said Kyndriel.

“We're going to yell stuff,” said Branhucar.

“Oh. That makes a lot more sense.”

They stood where directed, and waited for the familiar muffling charm to fall over the room.

“Okay, what should we yell?” asked Branhucar.

“Um.... Oh! I've got one,” said Kyndriel. “Promise you won't tell?”

“Sure.”

“Down with the nobility! The canonreeve is a Rilis lapdog!”

“Your old hometown or where you trained later?”

“Yes!”

“Fuck the Silver-Bloods! And fuck the guards, too!”

“Been waiting a while to get that one out, eh?”

“_I've_ been waiting a while? You had ages to hate your canon–”

Branhucar felt the charm break before she could say anything else. Kyndoril looked satisfied, Janille amazed. But she took a shuddering breath and clutched her hands.

“Nothing gets through that,” said Kyndoril. “When you are ready, just say the word, and this place will become soundproof.”

“Oh.... What does it matter anymore,” Janille moaned. “I'm already as good as.... Fine, just do it.”

Kyndoril muffled the shop, and the quiet was uncanny. He looked up, as if expecting to see someone through the ceiling, but said nothing of it.

“Janille, we want to help you. Is someone threatening you?”

“Why are you doing this?” Janille asked. “Everyone who goes looking just.... They're gone!”

“And you're afraid for your own safety now?”

“First Nagoth, then Murielle....”

Branhucar felt her stomach drop, and looked at Kyndriel. From the size of his eyes, he shared her alarm.

“Janille,” he said. “I need you to tell us everything about your husband's last day with you. It's important.”

“He... he was happy. He came home and told me he'd seen the most amazing thing: a sword made of the rarest metal. And... he and Nagoth are both gone.... Then Murielle came asking if I knew anything about a sword just like that, said it had made someone bleed dry, and... oh gods... Murielle....”

“That's why you were so afraid,” said Kyndriel. “Janille, we're going to do everything we can. We're going now. Lock up after us, don't answer for anyone tonight.”

“I'll ensure the lock holds,” Kyndoril told them.

“Better idea,” said Branhucar. “Come with us, just for a bit.”

“What? Why?” asked Janille.

“Because if you're really that worried, you should be anywhere else! We've got a place that's perfect for this. So come on!”

Janille was terrified, but the idea of being left alone seemed to bother her more than leaving. Kyndriel was not happy about detours, but he agreed. After a speedy walk through the darkening streets, during which Janille jumped at every sound and glanced up at the skies, they had returned to the inn and found its keeper.

“Put her up in our room for the night,” whispered Branhucar. “Give her whatever she needs. But most importantly, she is _not here_, _we_ are. Doesn't matter who asks.”

“What? Really?”

Kyndriel leaned forward. “Yes. Really. Now kindly show the lady to her room.”

When the innkeeper and Janille had gone upstairs, they hurried back out, and back toward the square. Dogs barked somewhere ahead.

“I should have guessed sooner!” Kyndriel hissed as they turned a corner.

It was hard to reply while running. But Branhucar managed to ask, “Yeah?”

“I should have known after Markarth of all assignments! Xarxes, let me be wrong!”

They passed the grocer's abandoned shop, and the barking grew louder. And then, Kyndriel slowed, and waved for them to wait. A doorway stood wide open, spilling light into the street. A sign decorated with a painted mortar and pestle hung above.

Again, Kyndriel readied his shield and led their approach.

The door's lock had been bashed off the frame. Acrid smells of smoke and burned wood hung in the air and scorch marks stained the door and wall. A table lay overturned. Shattered glass and smears of still-red blood marked the floor.

“Geon!” Kyndriel called. Nobody answered, and he ran into the back, and then upstairs. He came down a moment later.

“This is still a fresh scene,” Kyndriel said. “Check outside. Is there a blood trail? Anything?”

Branhucar poked her head out to look. The ground was clear. “Nothing!”

Kyndriel swore. “Well can either of you track anything? Branhucar, you found me in Riften. Can you find Geon?”

“Of course! That should....” But magicka retreated from her fingertips, even as she held the intent firmly in her mind. “I.... Come on, magic!”

Kyndoril focused. Then frowned and waved his hand. Then visibly strained his fingers.

“Someone or something is interfering,” he said. “I feel as if my magicka is leaving me.”

“Then.... Damn it, we need a bloodhound!” said Kyndriel. “Or....”

Branhucar knew just what was being expected of her, as he and Kyndoril both watched, waited, as if seeing the answer to all their problems. She remembered Farkas, moving through mud and snow as if a trail were visible. Kyndoril's tales of her mother.

“I've... never tracked anyone like that before. But all right.”

Maybe, it was a matter of trusting her nose and her senses to be as good as a wolf's. That was the idea, her wolf told her. That and the intent to seek.

The smoke and blood were thick in the room. The two elves, sweating under their armor, weren't very helpful either. Then were were herbs, oils and alcohol, the smells of steel and leather.... But the spices that Geon favored stood out in the end.

“I've got him.”

–

It would have been so much faster to follow the scent with the legs of a ten-foot beast. But none in Norvulk would take kindly to such a sight, if any looked out into the streets. And with company that needed to keep up, the convenience of speed would be lost.

Geon's trail led them in what at first seemed a strange direction. But then they'd turned north. And as her nose turned to the hill above the town, she saw faint flickers of light, and picked up new smoke in her nostrils.

“I smell Geon, and fire, and a lot of people,” she said.

“How many is a lot,” asked Kyndriel.

“I can't tell.”

“Are you prepared for a fight?”

“In this metal can? Sure.”

Their path took them a different route than the underground ruins. It wound and twisted up the hillside. And every step they took, Branhucar was sure there would be an ambush. But nothing came.

Finally, they reached the top of the hill, where the elven columns and steps vanished, giving way to a different stone entirely, one that made up a flat ground, inscribed with worn daedric runes. In the back was a stone table bearing a still-smoldering figure. Geon's torn, bloodstained apron lay in a pile nearby. The trail had come to an end.

“So.” Kyndriel's voice cracked. And then took on a new edge. “This is what has become of them all. Come out of hiding, cowards. I can hear you. All of you.”

Branhucar watched as he turned. And several shapes emerged, some from behind trees, others ascending the hill to surround them. There might have been a dozen. Two dozen. Maybe more.

And just as she feared, some among them had the faces of watchmen they'd met only that day. She felt a rush of dread, but more than that, anger.

“You. You _murderers_ were the ones doing this to Norvulk,” she said. Her wolf joined her in rage.

“We're cleansing Norvulk of your kind,” said one of the guards. “Sheor's going to feast tonight.”

“You should have stuck to grain,” said Kyndriel. “I'm giving you one chance to surrender. I suggest you take it.”

Laughter rippled through the men.

“Bold words, elf,” said one of the men. “Anyone else have any last words?”

“Yeah, just a few,” said Branhucar. And then she gave her form to the wolf, and watched as the mob recoiled. “**You should have listened!**”

Kyndriel inhaled.

A bitter wind unleashed itself from his throat. The nearest were blasted by the cold that tore across the dolmen and they fell, unable to move. The first to come close was greeted by the snap of a shield to the head.

Branhucar was large, and fast, and she took advantage. Her size and arms made quick work of the ones who crowded around her. But a few the cult had turned and fled. Her legs closed the distance, even as they sprinted downhill. The sound of her paws and the snarl of her maw gave her away; they turned and met her with steel.

But her fur and hide would not give to something so petty as that. The first fell to a swipe of her claws. The second was easier. A third screamed and dived from the path, but he was so easy to catch, while he flailed about in a darkness that  _his_ eyes could not pierce.

She was not sure what he was screaming. But he had gone limp and dropped his weapons. Here was a thing that was only worth killing to silence, and that was not much reason. She carried the man back to the dolmen, to find the others safe.

Kyndriel held the last at the point of his sword. Branhucar dropped her captive.

“**Some of them tried to run**,” she said, through a throat too large for her.

Kyndoril looked at her catch. Then sighed and approached. A swipe of his blade ended the man's struggling, while Kyndriel's prisoner screamed and cursed.

Branhucar looked at Kyndoril, unable to ask why, unable to do anything more than hide her fangs in shock. But he read her expression.

“He was near death,” said Kyndoril. “And frankly, not worth saving. I have eased his passing.”

Branhucar steeled herself and looked at the man's body. Blood had pooled beneath him even before his throat was cut. The reason, several feet of the reason, protruded from his shirt.

“**Oh gods. I.... I wasn't.... I didn't want....**”

She looked at her paws. Her forearms. They were wet and red.

The sight reduced her to her mortal form. And it was all she could do to stumble past the corpses, past Kyndoril, to find a clear place to let her stomach empty itself. She didn't get far. She barely heard the footsteps. She didn't notice that Kyndriel had joined her until he whispered something and pulled her hair back.

When it seemed her stomach had nothing more to give, despite all its attempts, they rejoined Kyndoril. And silently, with their prisoner in tow, they made their way back to Norvulk.


	13. Regrets

Their prisoner confessed everything to the mayor and constable. And then, the next morning, his crimes were announced before the public, and he was hanged. It was a grim spectacle that Branhucar averted her eyes from.

But the sudden windfall of coin from the constabulary, their reward for solving the mystery, gave them an excuse to return to the inn, to order a proper meal, and more importantly, to sample their good beer. A lot of their good beer. So much that Kyndoril became concerned.

“Branhucar, child,” he said. “You can't just drink your sorrows away.”

“Says you... you inebra... inebri... you... you lush.”

“I _am_ a lush, which makes me more experienced at this than you.”

“Have you tried not being a lush?” asked Kyndriel. “He's right, though. You're in for a killer headache.”

Maybe a killer deserved a killer headache, she thought, as her eyes started to water. But that was stupid. It was a real fight. Why was she being so stupid about it? It was even more sad, how stupid she was being about everything, when everything _had_ to happen the way it did.

“I'm such a tusking idiot, Kyn,” she muttered through thick tears.

“Of course you're not.”

“Yes, I am!”

“Well if you are, you are my favorite idiot in all the Mundus,” he said. “Come on. Let's go talk about it upstairs.”

The floor was a bit unsteady, but he kept her on her feet. Somehow, they navigated the treacherous stairs, and found their room. She got into one of the chairs, but sitting was hard, so she put her head down.

Kyndriel took the chair next to her, and she heard the door close, and Kyndoril say something about snacks.

“Talk to us, Bran,” said Kyndriel.

“How do you do it,” she said. “My hands.... My hands smell like blood.”

“Ah....”

And then she fell back into her stupid pathetic tears, while Kyndriel wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She heard Kyndoril sit across from them and set a plate down, and she looked up.

“Is... is that why it was so hard with Mankar Camoran?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” said Kyndoril. “But like you, I had no choice.”

“I... could have let them run.”

“Of course. But it is better you did not. I know it hurts, child,” he went on. “But those you killed had no such remorse for their own deeds. Letting them escape would have allowed them to kill again.”

“It was the same after Dawnstar,” said Kyndriel. “My life was saved because Ren'dar bloodied his hands for a night. Surely you remember? And they will never hunt the innocent again.”

“How does he do it?”

Kyndriel sighed. “Ren'dar is Ren'dar. You were not prepared for this like he was. Mara's heart, even I wasn't prepared like he was. Let me tell you a little story, Bran.”

“What about.”

“About me! And the first time I had to fight for my life,” said Kyndriel. “It was before I was Thalmor.”

Kyndoril interrupted him. “Hold on. I was told that you never set foot in Tamriel during the war!”

“And I didn't. The battle came to Auridon. And it wasn't the Empire. It was Pyandonea!”

Kyndoril's face met his palm. “Of course it would be Maormer.”

“I'm telling the story this time,” said Kyndriel. “So. One day, we were out in the Blue Divide, on an exercise between Skywatch and Woodhearth. And then, even though the weather should have been clear, it started to rain. We all knew what was coming. But you can't outrun a Maormer vessel.”

“What happened?” Branhucar asked. “Did you live? Wait.... Wait hold on....”

“Yes, Bran. I lived. My ship stood and fought. I did think I would die, or get taken back to their ship. But here I am. You know why? Because when it looked bad, when one of them cornered me, I took my shield and bam, sploosh, knocked him overboard. And that was one less Maormer trying to kill us all. Of course I was terribly shaken up about it at the time. But as I and my comrades knew well, the alternatives were death or enslavement.”

“So... Maormers are Sea Elves... right?”

“Yes...?”

“What makes you so sure you killed him.”

“They're Sea Elves, not fish elves. They don't have magic waterbreathing.”

“Oh, my child,” said Kyndoril. “My poor, sweet child.”

Kyndriel looked unnerved. “Well the point is, sometimes, these things happen. I was a marine. Ren'dar was an assassin. My father is.... Well....”

“I am many times your age, both of you. I have far fewer qualms about these things than I once did. But that is... not exactly ideal. It weighs on the soul, and it is a dangerous thing. I would have slain Verandis.”

“You stayed your hand in the end,” said Kyndriel. “That is more than certain mer can say.”

“I only spared him because you intervened.”

“My point remains. And you, Bran.... No one should expect this from you. Not even after all of Skyrim. You were never a soldier. You were just a civilian who ended up in a dangerous spot. And these things... could happen to anyone.”

“Well it's all shit,” said Branhucar.

“It is. But honestly, I think I prefer the shit where you live. Don't you?”

“Yeah, I guess....”

“Well I do not guess,” said Kyndriel, smiling at her. “I am an elf, and that automatically makes me right.”

“What.”

“I for one,” said Kyndoril, “am glad that I have not lost my daughter-by-Mara to a pack of murderous cowards. And as an elf, I am also right that this outcome was best.”

“I'm glad they didn't get you either. I don't want to think about if.... Oh, by Malacath....”

Kyndriel patted her shoulder while tears started again. “Well we're all safe and here, so why don't you eat something and maybe sleep off the drink?”


	14. The Sea Dragon

With the passage of time and the hangover (eased by Kyndoril offering magic to encourage her own magicka to dull the pain) came an odd stillness, but new questions. Questions that were not easy to answer, but easier to think on without the fog of drink and pain.

Kyndriel disappeared for a day, and when he returned, he recounted a meeting between himself, the mayor, and the constable. Sheor, they had told him, was treated as more of a superstition among the people of High Rock, with actual worship being paganism akin to worship of Jephre or Magnus. These were old gods of High Rock, remnants of elven rule, not the Divines given to them by the Empire. But even where Sheor still had some following, kidnap and ritual human sacrifice were unheard of.

“They can't just launch an inquisition against the people,” said Kyndriel. “That would be impossible, and besides, they're not Thalmor.”

“So what are they going to do about it?” asked Branhucar.

“They can start by inspecting each and every member of the guards. They certainly aren't going to protect the people of Norvulk from cultists if they _are_ cultists. As we saw upon the hill.”

“And I guess you're helping with that?”

Kyndriel sat in one of the chairs. “Well... let's just say that the mayor doesn't exactly want me involved. At least... not in further matters of criminal heresy.”

“Why not? We handled the first part pretty well.”

“That was already more than we were asked to do. It wouldn't be a very good look for a mer like myself to get involved, now that we know what Norvulk has been dealing with.”

“Think she knows about your last job then?”

“I'm sure she guessed.”

Kyndoril laughed. “Between your accent and, what was it? Swearing to expose the cultists to the light of Auri-El?”

“So I got a bit carried away.”

“Understandable. In the end, I did feel a pain that I had not felt in years, and asked Mara to lend her wrath.”

“Not Lorkhan?”

“It seemed unwise for that occasion.”

“Because of Sheor,” Branhucar said.

“You might say that,” said Kyndoril. “But it is... complicated.”

“So, what happens now?”

“Norvulk handles its own affairs,” said Kyndriel.

“Sure,” said Branhucar. “But what about us?”

Kyndriel looked at her for a moment, then folded his arms and shrugged. “No idea, honestly. Elouan's ghosts are all harmless or fake. I've no wish to trek up to Wrothgar. We can't return to Rivenspire. And I really don't want to get to Glenumbra and find out their so-called enchanted forest problems are just a bunch of Y'ffre worshippers using their magic to scare away the Imperial church.”

“Ooh, I wouldn't mind seeing that!” said Kyndoril.

“Same,” said Branhucar.

Kyndriel rolled his eyes. “All right, that would be interesting. But if either of you have ideas for our next course of action? Tell me. Because I'm done.”

–

Two weeks and some days later, their next course of action was decided for them, when a courier tracked them down at the inn. Kyndriel paid his fee and waited for him to leave before examining the letter. He lingered on the wax seal, then pried it off and unfolded the letter.

_Dragonborn,_

_News of your actions has reached Wind Keep. I was surprised to hear of your solution to Waridge's problems, and to hear of the crimes that you uncovered in Norvulk. It pained me to learn that many very fine people sworn to Wind Keep were among the slain on that night, but you have done this land a service._

_Now I have news that will interest you. It concerns a challenge more worthy of the Dragonborn. The Bjoulsae River is a border between our realm and the Western Reach. The only ways across are by bridge or ship, but a very big, very angry dragon guards the mouth of the river. While the dragon has deterred the wild men from invading more of High Rock, it has also cut off a vital trade route between Wayrest and Evermore._

_The lord of Black Wastes hopes for your assistance with this dragon. His fortress can be found in the hills west of the bridge. You are of course welcome to the hospitality of Wind Keep during your travels._

“What in Oblivion is this signature,” Kyndriel muttered.

Branhucar squinted at it. “Uhhh. Looks like, 'Ammmd Snmpf.'”

“And what the hell is this supposed to be? A map?”

“That's a map? It looks like someone tried to draw someone pissing on a pair of–”

“Oh, let me see that,” said Kyndoril. “Oh sweet Mara, you're right. That signature.... I think it belongs to a man named Bernard Taupe.”

“Oh good,” said Branhucar. “I should know the name of this man I've decided I hate.”

“That was fast.”

“Read the letter.”

“Hm. He must have dictated this to someone. It's actually legible.”Kyndoril frowned. “'Very fine people' indeed! Oh, were it still the Third Era, I would destroy him with an ink bottle and I would use my own pen.”

“I'm pretty sure in the Third Era he wouldn't exist yet.”

“What? Oh. Oh, right.”

“So.... This dragon?”

“Well, think about it this way,” said Kyndriel. “If we had gotten it together just a day ago we could have avoided the courier and this dragon, to us, never would have existed.”

“What? What are you saying?” asked Branhucar.

“I'm saying....” Kyndriel sighed and ran a hand through his white hair. “I hate this place a little more every day, but if there really is a territorial dragon we might as well go and sort it out before it eats someone who doesn't deserve it.”

–

They did not go to Wind Keep. When they finally left Norvulk behind, they took their time meandering eastward, keeping the fortress to their shoulder. Days passed on that road, camping under the stars or else trading their gold for the comforts of the few inns they came across.

As the scent of salt and sea reached them, and the mountains stretched further south, they came upon a small castle town perched on the cliffs overlooking the Iliac Bay and the scant houses and wharves along the coast.

But there was no sign of any dragon. Though Bernard, if that was his name, had claimed the dragon was a sea dragon, there was no point in beginning their search without asking Black Wastes more about it. And so they turned away and climbed the winding slope up the cliffs.

–

“Tell us about your dragon.”

The Lord of Black Wastes was a tall man sporting a short, thick beard and wearing many wrinkles on his brow. He carried himself with a commanding, haughty posture, but there was something tired in his face.

“So you've heard of it,” he said.

“Wind Keep sent word of it,” said Kyndriel. “They said it guards the waters near this castle and that it's become a nuisance.”

“It has. I look forward to seeing your work, Dragonborn.”

“Who's been telling the lords of High Rock that I'm Dragonborn?”

“Elouan. He believes you are capable and he thinks I should trust you with this. You come from Skyrim, right elf?”

“My name is Kyndriel. But I was there when the dragons returned, if that's what you're asking.”

“Right. The return of the Dragonborn heralds the return of the dragons, and their defeat. Have you slain many dragons?”

“I've battled them, and I have made allies among them. But I need to know more about this sea dragon before I plan my approach.”

Their host nodded. “Very well. As I hope you've been told, the dragon guards the bridge to the east. It is vicious and its reign of terror has forced High Rock to direct trade weeks out of the way, through Wrothgar and the Sea of Ghosts. Our best steel can't cut it, it ignores arrows and magic, and I have already lost two dozen men trying to kill it.”

“That's... unusual. My company and I have bested dragons with nothing but steel and arrows. Their scales are tough, but they're not actually armor. I am not questioning the skill of your men, of course.”

“Of course. We're out of normal options. But you have power that we don't. You can Shout, right?”

“If I must.”

“Well see if you can give that beast a taste of its own medicine. Get rid of that dragon, and we'll make this worth your time.”

-

“Do me a favor,” said Kyndoril. “Promise me you won't turn into a dragon this time?”

The sun was hot over the bay on the morning they set out to deal with the sea dragon. It cast a mist from the water to the lowlands. But the sweat that appeared on Kyndriel's forehead had nothing to do with the heat.

“You... you saw that,” he asked.

“I did. And I remembered what happened to the last Dragonborn who did that. I thought I'd lost everything when you fell out of the sky.”

“Let's... not talk about how my last encounter with dragons ended, all right? Besides! This Skywatch physique and my Voice are more than enough to deal with any beast.”

Kyndoril looked doubtful.

“If I must. Father, please, don't look at me like I'm going to die.”

“You say that as if you're confident that this will work. What are you planning, child?”

“You will see,” said Kyndriel, as he led them down the path toward the eastern road. “And if all goes well, they will see that dragons are not simply monsters to be destroyed.”

“Stars! What are you planning?”

“I wasn't lying. I have allies among the most fearsome of Skyrim's dragons, and I daresay I have Alduin's... tolerance, which is more than should be expected. I'm going to talk to it,” Kyndriel finally said. “It won't be happy to see us but if dragons can speak, they can be reasoned with.”

“You plan to reason with a dragon that's been a scourge to the people of the Iliac Bay.”

“Well... yes.”

“I remember when I was fifty and optimistic.”

“Hey!”

“It was such a good year until it stopped being good.”

“Father.”

“But it did result in meeting your mother, so I guess watching everyone around me die horribly worked out in the end.”

“All right, I get it. I'll be careful.”

“There's a good mer.”

It was several minutes' walk to the bridge, but they had a good view during their approach. A gatehouse and tower rose over the end of it and cast a wide shadow over the road. As they drew near, Kyndriel paused to look south, at the river and sea, and turned away from it to walk toward the shore instead. He stopped just short of the water's edge.

“It's here all right!” The Dragonborn had to raise his voice to speak above the roar of the waves. “I can't see it yet, but I've got this feeling! And I think it knows we're here, too....”

Branhucar eyed the water, and imagined a wave – or something in it – rushing in and sweeping her under. “Should we really be so close to it?”

“You can stand back a bit if you're worried. I'm really the only one who needs to be here.... Ah! There!”

The water swelled and a red fin stretched upwards like a massive sail. The dragon, somewhere beneath the waves, turned and doubled back.

A dragon's head – one large enough to fit three whole men in its mouth – rose out of the waves and showered them with seawater. It watched them from atop a neck longer and thicker than an old pine. The air around its mouth sparked and crackled.

Branhucar glanced at Kyndriel, who appeared to have frozen in shock.

“That's not a dragon,” he whispered, “that's a sea monster.”

“**BOVUL US ****RAHROTVAHRUKT****, VOLAAN.”**

“All right, that's a dragon.... Er.... Right.” Kyndriel drew a deep breath. “DREM YOL LOK!”

The sea dragon fixed Kyndriel with its vivid blue gaze. Then it snarled – a sound like thunder – and something in the air shifted.

“Drem yol lok!” Kyndriel repeated, outstretching his hands. “O' dragon of the seas! I've come here in peace, to hold tinvaak!”

The sea dragon roared in fury and stretched toward the sky, unfurling mighty fins at its sides like wings.

“**OKAAZ KEST!**”

The sky darkened and the waves began to cross. Lightning cracked from cloud to sea. And the winds began to whip and the clouds reached with whirling misty arms for the water, while Kyndriel gave a panicked cry and yelled for them to run. As they sprinted away from the shore, Branhucar heard the tell-tale crash of the sea dragon diving back beneath the waves.


	15. The Hurricane

The sea dragon, for all its ire, seemed to have given them a sporting chance. They returned to Black Wastes soaked to the bone, but largely unharmed, untouched by the gale that hammered the coast once they were safe inside.

“You didn't mention that your dragon knows _weather magic_,” Kyndriel spat at their employer, as they dried what they could by a fireplace.

“Nobody's ever seen anything like that!” said the lord of Black Wastes. “What happened?”

“It Shouted up a storm,” said Branhucar. “An actual, honest-to-gods storm.”

And after half a day of observation, and reports of whirlwinds and the tides rising to cover low-lying roads, Kyndriel and his father agreed that the sea dragon had not merely made a storm. It had caused something they called a _hurricane_.

Branhucar did not know just what a hurricane was, and despite Kyndoril describing it before in his tales, it seemed impossible to grasp the enormity of a great rainstorm that came and lasted for days, let alone a magical swirling one that had an central “eye” with still winds and clear skies. It was not magical, Kyndoril assured her. At least not the natural ones.

“So that's how weird our Skyrim blizzards are to you?” she asked him.

“Well, no, I lived in Skyrim since before you were born,” Kyndoril reminded her. “I understand blizzards now. I just hate them because I'm not my dear wife.”

“Honestly,” said Kyndriel, “I can do without the blizzards because at first it's all right, but then I start worrying someone's going to freeze on me, then it's, 'Stop moving through the snow like a hot knife you bastard!'”

“Your mother would have been proud to hear you put it like that.”

“But hurricanes! No thank you. I'm a mer of the sea as much as anyone, but if there was one thing I liked about the Thalmor dragging me into their gilded cage, it was getting to stay out of _that_.”

“You're scared of storms?” asked Branhucar.

“Storms are fine. On land. At sea they're the worst.”

“It's true,” said Kyndoril. “The only sea storm I ever liked was the one that brought me here.”

“The one you planned,” said Kyndriel.

“I did not do the planning. I merely accepted the arrangements that were offered to me.”

“Right,” said Branhucar. “But you were a sailor, right? You've got to know something about dealing with a monster like that.”

Kyndriel sat back on his chair. “If it were smaller, perhaps. Our ships were equipped with ballistae. Useful for dealing with the larger vipers, the really big sea serpents if the Maormer brought any. But I can't imagine it working on a dragon like that, even if we had one.”

“Would a Shout work?”

He frowned. “I thought of it, but.... It was calling down waterspouts, for gods' sakes, and I don't want to go back out into this now.”

–

The hurricane raged through the night and into the next day. With no options for dealing with the sea dragon, and no other ideas, they approached the court mage.

“I've been researching this thing for weeks,” she said, pulling books off the shelves and piling them into Kyndriel's arms. “It's probably not what you're after, but it's everything I've got.”

The first book that Branhucar tried had an extensive section about the sea serpents of the Iliac Bay. But it was more wondering about them than describing them.

_Sea serpents have been sighted in the bay since the First Era, when the armies of Empress Hestra scouted the coasts. The general who headed the failed expedition to Balfiera noted that they are “docile creatures, who flee from the prows of our vessels in fear of their size and deference to Akatosh, the king of all serpents, for they are as humble as they look fearsome, which is enough to frighten any man who has not yet witnessed their cowardice. They do not hunt ships but prefer to dine on lesser fish and birds.”_

_Sea serpents of course do not care for our observance of the gods, for they are mere animals whose souls cannot appreciate the heavens or feel faith. But it is true that wild sea serpents have nothing to gain from pestering ships, and eat fish and unlucky birds instead. The only serpent thought to menace High Rock is a creature known in song as Ithguleoir, whose legendary savage deeds include swallowing brides and priests, but no one has ever confirmed its existence._

_A greater mystery is the presence of sea serpents in the Iliac Bay. The rare specimens that are caught resemble their cousins in the southern seas, and those brought to Hammerfell by the Sea Elf mercenaries and traders who frequent the port cities of Abah's Landing and Sentinel. If the sea serpents of the bay are indeed descended from the domesticated creatures of Pyandonea, then it would explain their occasional habit of following ships and watching sailors like pups._

Interesting, thought Branhucar, but she and Kyndriel agreed that a book about sea serpents and not dragons was not very helpful.

The next was decidedly about dragons.

… _for the dragons in the Dawn were more numerous than the peoples of Tamriel, and they populated realms that many cannot imagine a dragon guarding._

_Observe the greater lizards of Hammerfell and Black Marsh, their mastery of their terrain, their domineering presence and their command of the earth and elements. The Dunerippers that grow to immense size are not dragons, nor are the Wamasu, but they are a shadow of greater dragons that once carved caverns for their nests and may still dwell far underground, in the dark and treacherous reaches of Nirn where no mortal can disturb them. It is said that they lack wings, but compensate with powerful forelimbs that can tear rock asunder._

_Greater still are the dragons of the sea, who lord over the sea serpents made in their image. These dragons are terrible to behold, but they are mercifully rare and cause no harm to Tamriel, for they require more food than whales and the waters are too shallow for them to live in comfort near us. Instead they guard lands that the gods do not intend us to see until the ordained time._

_It is the dragon of the skies that we must know and fear. It is the king of birds and the image of Akatosh, and its wings carry it fast and far in the air. Other dragons live where we do not care to visit, but the realm of the sky dragons extends to all lands with a sky, that is it say, all of Nirn._

“Do you think the Dwemer ever had to deal with cave dragons?” Branhucar asked.

“Never heard of them,” said Kyndriel. “Sea dragons aside, I think this man liked his skooma.”

He picked up the next book, then put it aside without reading past the first page.

“What's wrong with that one?” Branhucar asked.

“It's Phrastus of Elinhir. He's probably going to say that dragons are Molag Bal's spawn or something.”

_Dragons of High Rock_ sounded much more promising.

_While dragons are believed to have ruled over Tamriel throughout the Merethic Era, confirmed dragon contact has been limited to documented conflicts involving humans, such as the Dragon War that shook Skyrim in the late Merethic Era, and the dragons' reappearance during the Anequina Uprising of 2E 582._

_Rarer still are accountings of dragons co-existing with and protecting the peoples of Tamriel, namely the elves who revered them as representatives of Auri-El, but some legends hint of such a relationship. High Rock's history up until the mid-First Era is one shared by elves and men, who settled in the peninsula in the aftermath of the cataclysmic wars of the Dawn. The Nords who later arrived to conquer the land and drive out the Aldmeri peoples were surprised to find that men and elves were united in High Rock, and not knowing what to make of men who bore pointed ears like elves, and elves with soft faces and statures of men, deemed them Manmer and put them to work building towns and castles in their fashion, as the Nords so often did during their conquests of northern Tamriel._

_It is thought that during the conquest of High Rock, the Nords chased a hundred dragons deep into the glens and mountains, and sent home wagons full of bones and scales as their prizes. The Nords praised themselves for ridding the weak and cowardly Manmer of such a threat, but no records of High Rock from before this period or during the Direnni era that followed corroborate the Nords' claims of the dragons' tyranny over the region._

_The city of Daggerfall, if the ancient Nords are to be believed, posed a challenge. When the Nords put their elven and human captives to work clearing the woods and building their castle and ports, they were beset by seemingly endless rain and terrorized by mighty sea serpents whose words struck fear into their hearts. After many weeks of delay, the Nords were joined by a company of Tongues, who struck back with their Voices, slaying the creatures with their own fire and gales, and sending the remaining dragons fleeing into the Eltheric. Though the bounty would have been great, the Nords, rather than giving chase, remained on land to control their thralls. The sea dragons did not trouble the Nords again; when the people of High Rock drove their oppressors back to Skyrim, it was with their own might and the leadership of the newly arrived Clan Direnni of Summerset._

_Later accountings of the Nords tell of dragons that guarded the peaks of the Reach. It was thought at the time that these dragons had allied with the Reachmen and Orcs of the mountains, but there is no evidence of this. In fact, tales recorded by Imperial researchers suggest that the people of the Reach considered the dragons to be loud, irksome pests that forced them to spend too many days hiding in caves and excavated Dwarven cities._

_The last recorded sighting of a dragon in High Rock occurred during the late Third Era, as a pale sea dragon with brilliant red fins turned its fury upon daedra that rampaged along the coasts. Its storms quenched the fires of the Deadlands and its breath was lethal to any demon that dared to face it. This dragon has not been seen since, but it is believed to be a force of good, associated now with Saint Martin and the knightly orders of the land._

“Wait, Saint Martin?” Branhucar asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Kyndoril. “You remember Martin from my tale, don't you? Poor Martin was canonized after the Great War ended. A petty defiance of the Aldmeri Dominion. He's right up there with Alessia now because some monks were feeling spiteful.”

“What about that Concordat?”

“It doesn't apply. You don't worship a saint. You honor them for being an outstandingly pious example to all other mortals.”

“You'd think they did,” said Kyndriel. “You'd be surprised how many humans nearly wet themselves, thinking I was going to arrest them for leaving a little picture of Martin Septim out in the open. But... what's this about sea dragons you've got here, Bran?”

“Stuff about sea dragons getting pissed at Nords and daedra,” said Branhucar. “See for yourself.”

By the time they finished with the books that the court had provided them, they reached two conclusions. First, they were all woefully under-informed of the nature of dragons, particularly of the one that stalked the bay. Second, in Kyndriel's own words, Aicantar of Shimmerene was a fool and he never should have put so much stock in the words of someone who considered Ysgramor to be a valid historian.

But there was no sense in dwelling on these things, or in attempting to approach the sea dragon so soon, or in going outside at all while the hurricane grew and raged. This inaction, the lord of Black Wastes reluctantly agreed was sound, and they eased his anxieties by pretending that there was much more to learn about the sea dragon and asking so many questions about its history, its habits, and of mythical water creatures that were probably unrelated to it. Many useless and even inane theories were invented, some while feigning study, some over a glass of wine. The lord of Black Wastes was eager to hear them all, and they took turns inventing long-winded, mind-numbing tales that would put doom-saying Imperial priest-scholars to shame.

Nights and the hours of privacy afforded to them were welcome, and Branhucar and Kyndriel turned their minds away from the sea dragon and from High Rock whenever the chance arose. But sleep itself was no retreat, when Skyrim and dragons haunted her dreams, and chased her back to a waking world where the Dragonborn himself complained that she'd been kicking him.

–

Their days of stalling and lying to soothe the lord's doubts ended as the hurricane finally abated and the skies cleared. Not even a day after the last rain fell over the shore, the lord of Black Wastes sent for them once again. Branhucar steeled herself and wondered how they would handle being asked to see to the dragon again.

But when they entered his throne room, they were greeted by a strange sight: men in steel armor and the blue and white livery of Alcaire.

“You're a long way from home, aren't you?” asked Kyndriel.

“Alcaire has joined the effort to free the Bjoulsae River of its dragon,” said the lord of Black Wastes.

“I see. Well met.”

One of the knights sized him up. “And are you the Dragonborn?”

“I am.”

“We've been informed that your attempt to deal with the beast has been unsuccessful.”

Kyndriel squared his shoulders. “I had been informed that combat was impossible. And frankly, I think that attempts to slay it have only worsened the situation. Dragons are not beyond reason, and yet when I approached in peace, in the way of dragons, it suspected treachery.”

“You can speak to dragons? I find that hard to believe.”

“I can, and I have. They are not simple beasts. We've consulted with the court mage and read her library. I think this dragon has a history with High Rock older than any of us. A good one. It matches the description of a dragon that protected the coast two-hundred years ago. There must be some reason for its change of heart.”

“How much does its reasoning matter to you, Dragonborn? Do you care about the reasoning of a mad dog, or a crazed murderer? This dragon is no different. It's time it faced justice.”

“It _is_ an enormous Dawn era being that can't be wounded and can summon hurricanes with two words. You're making a grave mistake if you think you can do what no other man has–”

The knight withdrew something from a pouch on his belt, and Kyndriel gasped.

“Auri-El's breath. What is this... thing?”

“Something far better than normal steel,” said the knight.

Branhucar leaned around for a better look. In his gloved hand, the knight held a crossbow bolt that ended in – her heart skipped – a bright crimson arrowhead.

“Is that thing daedric, by any chance?” she asked.

“Not in the slightest! How could something capable of felling a dragon be daedric? No, this is the answer to High Rock's problems. And we would be honored if the Dragonborn would come for a demonstration.”

Kyndriel stared down at the bolt another moment, then huffed. “Very well. But you will understand if we keep our distance this time.”

“Of course.” The knight returned the bolt to its pocket, and Branhucar felt a weight lift from her chest. “We'll make our preparations. Meet us on the road as soon as you're able.”

The knights left them and the lord of Black Wastes went to see to other business. Once they were out of earshot, Kyndoril sighed and massaged his forehead. “What is that godsawful pounding...?”

“Pounding?” Kyndriel asked.

“Does light hurt?” asked Branhucar. “Do you need to sit down or something?”

“It's already passing,” said Kyndoril. “But I have a terrible feeling about this dragonslaying.”

“Agreed. This seems like a very bad idea, somehow.”

“I don't like this,” said Kyndriel. “I don't like any of it. If this doesn't work, the dragon will remember it, and us, and any chance of calming it will be gone.”

“Well, only thing to do is watch and stay out of it?”

“Sure. And maybe my father can consecrate their bodies when it all goes to Oblivion?”

Kyndoril said nothing.

“Father? Are you sure you're all right?”

“Physically. Lead on, son. We have a thing to witness, however it ends.”

–

The air was still and stifling when they returned to the shore. This time, they stayed far from the water, relegated to watching over horses while the knights, armed with bows and crossbows, made their way to the bridge and disappeared through the gate.

Within minutes, the faint sound of a roar reached them, and they spotted a long, serpentine neck above the water. The sea dragon swam toward the bridge and rumbled words that they could not catch so far away.

“What do you think it's saying?” Branhucar asked.

“Last time it told us to flee,” said Kyndriel. “It considered us intruders. Oh, Stendarr, it's attacking....”

Flashes of light erupted from the dragon's mouth, but in seconds it recoiled, and shook its head before roaring again. A ball of lightning struck the bridge and the thunder carried to where they watched, but after a minute, the dragon gave one last cry and turned. It dove headfirst into the water again, and was soon visible only as a red fin that sped away and sank beneath the waves.

“Well, they've scared it off,” said Kyndoril.

“That's very different from a dead dragon,” Kyndriel replied.

Branhucar looked up at the sky, waiting for clouds to gather and rain to fall. But the skies stayed blue.

“It'll be enough for the knights, I'm sure,” Kyndoril told them. “No, don't go to them. Let them walk all the way back to us.”

When the knights finally made their way back up the road, it was with a bounce in their step and satisfied grins. The one who'd challenged them in the court of Black Wastes declared their problem solved.

“See, Dragonborn? That is how you handle a raging beast.”

“I saw it flee in pain,” said Kyndriel. “But dragons have a memory for these things. It will come back and it won't be very happy.”

“And we'll be ready. We'll need to send word to Black Wastes and Alcaire of our success, and bring in more weapons. But, we've actually got one more job for you. I know, you three have been running all over the place, but we need someone to go to Wayrest. And don't worry, it has nothing to do with ghosts or dragons.”

“Wayrest?”

“Yeah. Port city to the west. Big old castle, cathedral, ancient gathering grounds for reckless mercenaries. Can't miss it.”

“I know where Wayrest is, but what's the job?”

“We just need you to deliver the news of our victory to Queen Barynia. She's been anxious about the situation here. And Duke Elouan wanted you to do the honors.”

“Well, if it's up to him,” said Kyndriel. “Will your duke want anything more of us?”

“After all of this? Arkay's beard, you've done more than enough for High Rock this season. Listen, go to Wayrest, talk to the queen, and get some rest. A reward will be along from Alcaire, and if we need anything else, you'll know then.”

“Very well. Gods watch over you. And don't get eaten by that dragon when it comes back furious with you.”

“Really funny, Dragonborn. Oh, one more thing. The main road along the coast will be easiest.”

Kyndriel nodded. And at long last, they turned from the knights and began their long walk back across Stormhaven.


	16. Into the Fire

The roads took them first past what looked like a small fishing village, with a field of crops growing just beyond it. Branhucar counted a few boats out in the bay, and was struck by a new thought.

“Say, Kyn. You think they were hurt by that sea dragon too?”

“I have a feeling the hurricane made their lives difficult, but now that you mention it... nobody told us about a village, did they?”

“Not once,” said Kyndoril. “Their concern was their trade route. Unsurprisingly.”

They moved on. In another day, a castle they had seen on their journey from Norvulk rose up on their right. The view of the walls and towers was a bit more ominous from the lower road.

“Aphren's Hold,” said Kyndoril. “Or, that's what it was called long ago. According to your grandmother, there was a tiny bit of a misunderstanding between some dead royals and the place was haunted for generations.”

“'Was' haunted?” Branhucar asked. “What changed?”

“Well apparently a knight, Dame Gwendolyn, marched right in there told them to stop their petty nonsense. The ghosts agreed that their haunting was getting rather tiresome and made peace.”

“I wish all hauntings were that easy to fix.”

“Hear hear!”

Over the next days, as the sun burned down on them, as her legs and feet grew sorer from the journey, Branhucar found herself imagining what Wayrest would have waiting for them.

Some castle with an important queen. And she might have spent months around former kings and queens of elves, but getting in front of a new one was an experience that seemed impossible to be ready for. Breton nobles seemed so different from the jarls of the Nords.

But then there was the idea of resting. Finally resting, for real, with no demands from anyone. A city like Wayrest had to have a decent inn with good food. And with the heap of gold left from Norvulk, and whatever they were going to get from Alcaire, they could be comfortable for a while.

Soon enough, tall gray walls came into view. And somewhere in the midst of them, a gray shape that must have been the keep rose above the city. It could have only been Wayrest, and they congratulated themselves and hastened onward.

Their new joy did not last long. When they had next looked up, a dark cloud had begun to rise over the walls. Black smoke billowed up from a corner of Wayrest, and shrieks, faint from the distance they had yet to go, caught their ears.

Their work in High Rock wasn't finished. And the road remaining between them was still long. They hurried, and after minutes that had seemed an hour, the stench of smoke thickened. There they were, at Wayrest, and the village outside the city wall was consumed by fire.

They darted past throngs of people who had just escaped, people who wept and cursed the gods. And soon they felt the heat of the flames. A few of the villagers hauled up buckets of water in a chain. Mages and a priest had spread out to cast freezing air. Someone shouted commands in the distance.

“Fo krah diin!”

A rush of cold air tore from Kydriel's mouth and the side of a building gained a coating of ice. But it soon melted and streamed onto the ground.

“I'm going to see what else I can do here,” he said, focusing intently on his hands. They gained a bluish-white glow, and the air between his fingers started to glisten. “I think... I think I know a spell. Meet me here a bit later.”

He ran off, and Branhucar felt Kyndoril tap her on the shoulder. “I'm going to search for survivors. Go help my son. Keep your head down, don't breathe the smoke, and for gods' sakes don't go inside any of this. Do you understand?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good. Be safe, my child.”

She felt a wave of magicka pass over her, knew that it was Kyndoril looking for anyone still caught in the fire, and ran to catch up with Kyndriel. She found him with his jaw clenched, hands out, spraying frost over the walls where they'd begun to burn. But for all his effort, the flames continued to spread.

“I need a hand!” said Kyndriel. “Come on, if I can make ice, I know you can!”

“What? How!”

“You don't know? Just... start throwing magicka, but really really cold!”

“Really cold! Right!”

Branhucar gathered magicka to her fingertips, focused on the memory of Skyrim's chill, and saw mist begin to freeze around her gauntlet. She let her spell fly.

A huge icicle pierced through the wooden wall and the thatch roof of the house before she even saw it form.

“Bran, what?! Don't actually throw it, just... make it flow out instead!”

She stared at the damage she'd caused, then tried to envision frost gushing from her hands. Her gauntlets froze stiff.

“I'm no good with ice!”

“Nonsense! You're making plenty of it!”

“I need to try something else,” she said. “There's got to be another way here.”

She needed something cold. Something cold enough to put out fire where her own magic could not.

The solution came to her. It was a risk, it was probably even crossing a line, but it was not the time to think about that. Petty daedra and weapons could be summoned from Oblivion. But she had heard of other things, even seen a few in Coldharbour. Elemental creatures, sometimes, were just slightly more powerful daedra.

Something cold, thought Branhucar.

Magicka was a door to the Void. That door needed to open, to welcome....

The air cooled so quickly that she remembered the mountains. A hulking creature of ice appeared next to the raging fires. It stood an entire mer's height above her and icicles as thick as young trees made its arms.

The frost atronach surveyed the inferno, and gave a strange guttural noise that sounded like ice cracking and groaning under a heavy weight.

“Help us put this out!” Branhucar shouted. “Please!”

The frost atronach roared with a mouth that it did not have and lifted one of its arms. It brought it down upon the frame of a small house. A wall splintered and collapsed, and took half the roof with it.

“No! Wait! Don't smash!”

The atronach ignored her and tore its other arm through the next wall, reducing the house to a blazing pile of straw and planks, before lumbering off to find its next target. Branhucar ran after it, shouting at the top of her lungs for anyone nearby to get out of its path.

And the atronach ran on, swinging its tree-sized arms this way and that, unconcerned for the blaze, and for the safety of its own arms as it plunged them into the fire. But, the atronach did not seem troubled by the heat. Maybe it couldn't melt?

The fire, though, didn't care for the efforts of the atronach either. For all the atronach cooled the air, and the effect was more than enough to feel frigid even surrounded by endless fire, it was useless against the flames.

As the atronach set to work demolishing a shed, Branhucar heard a shout. She glanced over her shoulder to see Kyndoril hurrying her way, silver sword in his hand.

“Branhucar.”

He did not look pleased.

“Hi. Honored... uh... dad.”

“What have you done.”

Branhucar pointed at the atronach. It punched something into the dirt. Horrified cries rose nearby.

“We'll talk about this later. Now put that back where you got it.”

“How?!”

Kyndoril cast a violet light at the frost atronach. It recoiled and vanished, and took the sanctuary of its cold air with it.

“Oh,” said Branhucar. “Okay, then.”

“Come. We need to get out of here.”

“But these people–”

“There is nothing we can do.”

A shockwave nearly pushed her over. The flames flickered, but roared back to life. Before she could ask what had happened, she saw Kyndriel in the distance. He was bent double, arm wrapped around his middle. A wide swath of frozen ground stretched between him and the fire. Branhucar ran to him.

“Kyn, what happened?”

“Oh, Auri-El,” he wheezed. “Thricedamned fire....” He straightened up again. “I... I am Dragonborn. This should be simple....”

Branhucar looked at the ice coating the grass. Then the raging fire beyond it.

“Shouting isn't working? Are you serious?”

“It should work. Stand back. Fo....”

A cold whirlwind struck the blaze again, but nothing happened. Kyndriel clutched his chest and sat.

“Kyn! How many times have you done that?!”

His voice was hoarse. “Lost... lost count....”

“Well stop it! You're hurt!”

“I....”

“Son,” said Kyndoril. “Enough. Catch your breath and let us leave.”

Kyndriel looked at him. His eyes were red and watery, maybe from the smoke, maybe from his own frustration. But he looked at the fires again and gave a grudging nod.

The air crackled.

A bolt of lightning, and Kyndoril collapsed with a heavy thud. A nearby tree exploded.

Branhucar stared at him, as he struggled on the ground, grasping at the soil, barely able to move. And then she turned her head in the direction of the bolt while Kyndriel gave a weak cry. A dozen mer in eagle armor and a pair of black-robed battlemages faced them, mere meters away.

The Thalmor had found them. The Thalmor, who weren't supposed to be there. The Thalmor who were not tolerated by Queen Barynia.

“Not one step, summoner!” called one of the battlemages.

Summoner. She wondered if another frost atronach between herself and the Thalmor would be any good. But before she could even try, she realized, she could not reach her magicka.

As her heart pounded, another way out came to mind. The wolf was alert, angry. But that... that was impossible. Whatever blocked her magic blocked the wolf.

She glanced back at Kyndoril. Miraculously, he was awake and alert. There was no sign he had even been struck.

“I'm not hurt,” he whispered, a nervous smile on his face. “But I can't move. Just get out of here. Run.”

“Not without you,” whispered Kyndriel.

“Forget it. Go!”

Kyndriel stood up and faced the Thalmor.

“Kyndriel? Kyndriel, no....”

One of the battlemages called to them again. “In the name of the Aldmeri Dominion, you're under arrest! Surrender or face His Majesty's wrath!”

Kyndriel stepped past Branhucar. The Thalmor closed ranks. The Dragonborn inhaled....

And then collapsed, letting out a gasping, wheezing cough.

That left Branhucar, without her magic or her werewolf form, against over a dozen mer. The mer who began to close in on the Dragonborn, weapons drawn.

“Wait!” yelled Branhucar. She ignored the looks of the Thalmor and threw herself in front of Kyndriel. “For gods' sakes, wait! He... he's not.... He can't even fight back, and there's a lot of you, and... what would Trinimac think about this?”

“Bran, don't,” wheezed Kyndriel.

“How bold of you,” said one of the battlemages, “to think that Trinimac would not strike you down where you stand.”

“If Trinimac himself wants to fight me, fine! But you cowards–”

Her words turned into garbled, half-formed noises as her tongue stopped working. The justiciars burst into raucous laughter.

On the ground, Kyndriel waved sheepishly at the nearest battlemage. The battlemage stared at him, then waved for the justiciars to be quiet.

“Speak.”

Kyndriel tried again, but his words were nearly inaudible. The battlemage frowned.

He had lost his voice. Or, that was what Branhucar tried to say. The Thalmor still had her silenced. The battlemage made a gesture and her tongue loosened.

“Speak for him, and do not waste my time.”

Branhucar nodded and knelt next to the Dragonborn. “Kyn.... What do you want me to tell them?”

He looked at her through watering eyes. “Giving up,” he croaked, his voiced strained. “Invoking Stendarr.”

“Kyn....”

“Please, Bran....”

Branhucar looked back at the battlemage. Or, his shoulder. “He... he says... we're giving up, and we're invoking Stendarr.”

“Really,” said the battlemage. “An interesting choice of words, for a simple peasant of Skyrim.”

The Dragonborn did not even try to speak. But his expression shifted from pain and resignation to shock.

“Very well. There's no sense trying to wring answers from a dead mer.” The battlemage addressed the justiciars. “Arrest them.”


	17. The Eagle's Talons

It was cold under Wayrest. The torches and lamps that lit the dungeons could not warm it. Branhucar guessed that the Thalmor did not feel the chill in their armor and robes. She had only the ragged shirt and breeches they had thrown at her, and might as well have been naked for all the good it did.

But that was the point, wasn't it?

At least the Thalmor of Northpoint had let them keep their clothes.

Another thought intruded, one more desperate: They never should have left Northpoint in the first place. A year wouldn't have been so bad.

And Kyndriel wouldn't have hurt his throat. And Kyndoril wouldn't have been dragged away from them. Or she from them.

The terror in Kyndriel's eyes burned in her mind.

“Now, let's see....”

The interrogator's voice snapped her back into the room, where she realized too late that her eyes were watering.

“Branhucar, right? Stars above, but you don't look like the rough sort. You really don't belong down here, do you?”

The kindness in her voice was startling. Branhucar looked at her interrogator. An Altmeri woman in the same black and gold formal robes as the rest of the Thalmor who mattered. No different from the motherly Nords in the jarl's colors, who had said kind things one minute and then backhanded her the next.

“Thank you, uh, my lady,” said Branhucar, reaching for etiquette that she had hoped she would never need again. “I don't really want to be down here, but... this is what the Thalmor want, so....”

“Perhaps, but looking at you, I think this has all been a terrible misunderstanding.”

At least Ondolemar had been straight with her while trying to talk her into a bargain.

“My lady. If I may, I.... Well....”

“Yes?”

“The Thalmor do not misunderstand anything.” Branhucar struggled to quash the anger in her voice. “You all don't do anything without a reason. You want something. That's why you're down here treating me like some lost dog.”

The fake smile disappeared from the Thalmor interrogator's face, and Branhucar regretted everything she had said in the last minute.

“Is that ingratitude? You sit here comfortably when I could have you hanging by your wrists and ask my questions with _barbs_.”

Branhucar flinched and raised her hands in defense. They were bound in cold-iron. The effort it took to move them at all was immense.

“Sorry my lady.”

“If you wish to survive the night you will mind your tongue.”

“Yes my lady.”

“Good. Now let's not waste time. You and your accomplices were serving a sentence in Northpoint when you decided to spit upon the mercy of the Thalmor and flee. Is that correct?”

“No!”

“Then why did we find you here, human?”

Branhucar bit her lip and wished that they'd had time to think of a story, any story, to feed the Thalmor this time.

“Well... it's... not that we–”

The interrogator ignored her. “And why you were serving in Northpoint?”

“Trespass. An accident. Really, we never would have–”

“Smuggling, perhaps? Conspiracy against the Dominion?”

“No! That's the last thing we–”

“Do you deny breaking into the barracks through smuggler's tunnels?”

“No, but it wasn't–”

“Do you deny setting fire to the hall of justice?”

“No! I mean, yes!” Branhucar watched as the interrogator's smile returned. “We never set a fire anywhere! We ran off, but we didn't burn anything!”

“And why did we find you in Dreughside while it burned to the ground?”

“We saw the fire from the road. We... we thought we could do something. Your justiciars saw me with that frost atronach. Ask them.”

“The justiciars saw a fool of a mage chasing an out-of-control atronach while it wrought more destruction upon the town.”

She blushed, and remembered Kyndoril's anger.

Kyndoril was probably facing worse. And fresh dread settled in her mind; what if the others were damned for her mistake?

“And they told me something very interesting about one of your number,” said the interrogator. “The younger mer. He was shouting magic at the fire, wasn't he? So much that he incapacitated himself? Care to explain that?”

Branhucar stared. The Thalmor were not supposed to know about this. Only the Thalmor in Skyrim had known about Kyndriel being Dragonborn and unless Elenwen had sent word....

“You can do magic with words, right?”

She was not convinced. “You're not being honest with me, Branhucar.”

“I honestly don't know, my lady. I don't know how he does it. I just do the magic I learned from books. With my hands.” She waved her hands over the edge of the table. Her arms felt like lead. “Um.... I know why I'm wearing these, but–”

“Do you really think, after this conversation, that you should be trusted?”

Branhucar said nothing.

“Now, I believe I have something of yours.” The interrogator held up a ring for her to see. Elouan's lion and flame crest flashed in the firelight. “Yes, I see that you recognize it. How did you three come by this?”

Branhucar sighed. “Alcaire. The duke asked us to solve problems for some villages. He gave us the ring so people would believe us when we said he sent us.”

“Elouan. Elouan would send a Reach girl and two Altmer to do his bidding? I think not.”

“But he did.”

“I believe you, Branhucar.”

Bullshit, she thought.

“But you were obviously used. Elouan despises you and all your kind, and he has no love for elves. Whatever sanctuary he promised you never existed.”

“Hm.”

“So do you trust, Branhucar, that your duke will say anything in your defense?”

Damn it all. She couldn't say. The answer, in her sound mind, was no. But she clung to a sliver of hope, a distant gray maybe.

–

Their cell was colder.

Branhucar shivered and huddled next to the Dragonborn, who could not offer any words, but lent an arm to hold her while she leaned close. Unable to speak, he'd simply been locked away. The Thalmor had no use for him while his voice was so broken. But they had no kindness to heal him. He was left tensing through pain each time he swallowed or tried to talk.

Eventually, Kyndoril returned, pale and shaking. As soon as the guards left them, he collapsed. His back was a web of cuts and welts, one that even he could not mend in his irons.

Kyndriel knelt next to him and wept, while Kyndoril whispered something in Altmeris. Kyndriel shook his head.

“This is my fault,” Branhucar whispered. “I never should have called that thing. If they hadn't seen it, then... then maybe....”

“This will not end me,” said Kyndoril, through his pain. “And... the atronach meant little.... Merely approaching Wayrest... was our folly....”

“But... why did they do this to you?”

“I... I told them the escape... from Northpoint was... was all my idea. I asked them... to let me bear their wrath.”

Kyndriel's voice was frail. “You didn't have to. I would have suffered my share.”

“No. This is all my fault. I should have learned... in Cyrodiil.... It's all my fault....”

“Father....”

“Please don't strain your voice any further.... Not for my sake....”

“As long as you are here... I must....”

–

Time began to pass. The Thalmor guards brought food. A day passed. Then two. Maybe four. Or was it three? It was difficult to count by meal.

At least there was food.

At least the Thalmor left them alone.

But Kyndriel's voice grew weaker.

And Kyndoril winced and swore whenever he moved.

And however she tried, she could not coax the wolf to speak, or even reach her.

Another day passed.


	18. Reunion

“Psst.”

Branhucar opened her eyes to the dark again. Her dream had been a strange one; a bear had approached, and in the darkness she still half-expected to be crushed by the weight behind a massive paw. But there was no bear in the cell. She felt for Kyndriel, wrapped an arm over his chest, and waited for sleep to come again.

“Psst!”

And now she knew that she hadn't imagined that noise.

“Who's there?”

Kyndriel stirred next to her. “What's...?”

Branhucar looked in the direction of their cell door and saw two bright green eyes peering through the bars.

“Keep your voices down,” whispered the newcomer. The voice was so familiar. Too familiar. She wondered if she had returned to her dreams, until he spoke again. “This one needs you to be quiet. He thinks you want the guards to keep sleeping, yes? Just nod. He can see you just fine.”

Branhucar nodded.

“Very good.”

Branhucar felt around and found Kyndoril's arm.

“Wake up,” she whispered. “Someone's here to help.”

Kyndoril muttered something and sat up, wincing and groaning. The newcomer shushed him, and Branhucar's ears caught the sound of a pick. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

The cell block's torchlight illuminated the mane and tail of a Khajiit.

“Are we all awake?” he said. “He thinks you should hurry. The sooner we leave, the better. Ah... what happened to the elf? He smells like blood.”

“A flogging,” said Branhucar.

“Ah, can he walk? This one has something if he cannot.”

“I'll manage,” Kyndoril moaned.

“And why is the young one so... quiet? Did the dog get his tongue?”

“Lost his voice,” said Branhucar. “His throat's badly hurt.”

“That is no good. Up you get, Ja'Khajiit. You are going to see the healer now.”

Kyndriel started, and managed to rasp one word. “You?”

“What? No, silly cub. This one is not the healer.”

They helped Kyndoril stand, and then followed the Khajiit out of their cell, in a direction Branhucar did not remember walking. And she could not help but hear their footsteps, much too loud against the stone floor for making noise at all. She cringed in dread as they approached the end of the hall, where a guard sat....

The guard on duty had slumped snoring onto the table, their hand still around a tipped flagon. A small puddle of ale had spilled over the table and onto the floor. The Khajiit stopped next to her, eased something from a pocket. And then he tucked it into one of his own pockets and waved them up a flight of stairs, through a door.

Down the next hall they crept. Or, Branhucar felt as though they should have been creeping. The Khajiit was confident as he was silent, and led them at a pace that seemed too fast. In a minute, they were in front of an unguarded, unlocked door.

Once they were on the other side, the Khajiit locked the door and relaxed.

“It is a good thing the humans love their sewers,” he said. “He does not know where he would be without them. Hands, please.”

Branhucar extended her arms as well as she could, and felt her rescuer fiddle with her cuffs. The cold-iron snapped open and fell away. Magicka and energy began to trickle back, and he set to work on the others. When he was done, he took a torch from the wall. And Branhucar finally got a good look at his face. At a familiar grin.

“By Malacath,” she whispered. “Ren'dar! What are you.... How did.... Why?”

He nodded and walked on. “It is good to see you again, cub. But let's save the questions for when we are safe, yes?”

Kyndriel hurried to catch up and tapped him angrily on the shoulder.

“Ouch,” said Ren'dar. “You will bruise my arm.”

Kyndriel gestured and struggled to speak.

Ren'dar shook his head. “Wait until your voice is back. You will get to ask all of the questions then, all right?”

“Forgive their excitement,” said Kyndoril. “You have no idea what you've saved us from.”

“No,” said Ren'dar, “_you_ have no idea what you are being saved from. But this one accepts your gratitude.”

Despite it being a sewer, it was drier and less pungent than Branhucar remembered of Shornhelm. In fact, there wasn't a river of waste anywhere in sight.

“Wayrest doesn't use this place, or something?” she asked.

“Cities change. The humans change the use of the sewers with them. It is not a hard thing.”

As they came out of a tunnel, Ren'dar held out an arm to stop them from walking over a ten-foot drop into a cistern. A strange feeling of malice lingered in the air.

“And this was once a place where terrible things happened,” he went on. “Sewers. Not very friendly.”

He turned left and led them into another winding tunnel, one that gave way to natural rock and a sprawling cave.

“Ren'dar has searched this place carefully. There are no giant bats or zombies or necromancers here now. Just the lot of us.”

“Us,” Kyndriel mouthed.

“Us!” Ren'dar repeated. “Come, come! The doctor is waiting for you!”

He led them across, through a shallow, stagnant pool of seawater, and to a large cloth tent pitched in the corner. A handful of elves in gray leather and darkened linen milled around the cave, watching them with unblinking stares.

“The Shadows are here too?” Branhucar asked. “So... then... that means....”

Of course he had to be there. Ren'dar wouldn't have bothered coming hundreds of miles without him.

Tail swishing, Ren'dar ran ahead to the tent and disappeared behind the flap. In a moment, he poked his head back out and waved for them to join him.

Branhucar stepped forward, and noticed the others did not follow. Kyndriel stood there, eyes darting from the elves to the exits. His father had turned a strange shade and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Well? Come on,” said Branhucar.

Neither of them looked at her. Ren'dar shrugged and pulled the tent flap aside to let her pass. And there, standing by a table in the back, was a very familiar elf with a close shave and a short, silver beard.

“You've alive! Thank the gods. But where is the Dragonborn?” asked Ondolemar.

“Outside with your ex-boyfriend,” said Branhucar.

“My what? Ah.” Ondolemar's face and ears went red. “It is simply not done, to remark on the.... You know what, forget it. Why are they hesitating?”

That face had scared her, once. But that face was no longer framed by a Thalmor hood.

“Kyndoril told us a lot of things about you two,” Branhucar said.

“I surmised as much.”

“Kyndriel told him about the Druadach pass incident.”

Ondolemar sighed. “Well, this is going to be pleasant.”

“Yeah. But if you're still worth a damn as a healer then they both need to see you, and you need to talk to them.”

“When did _you_ become so bold?”

“I was always so bold! You Thalmor and the hold guards made that a death wish!”

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. And he shook his head. “You know my true loyalties. But you're right. It never mattered when I wore the robe, did it?”

She said nothing, and watched while Ondolemar paced the tent.

“So the Dragonborn is Kyndriel now?” he finally asked.

“He is.”

“And have you also taken a new name?”

“Yeah. It's Branhucar now.”

Ondolemar nodded. “Well met, Branhucar. It is no small thing, to know and name yourself, to reshape yourself as you see fit. Such things are always a privilege to witness – a privilege I have rarely held since the Crystal Tower fell. But... enough of an old mer's reminiscing. I believe I have something of yours.”

He reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a moonstone amulet on a hempen cord. The image of a man with a wolf's head was still carved into its surface.

“The Thalmor took this. How did you...?”

“The same way I got you three out of Thalmor hands. I sent the spy.”

He handed her another amulet, one of ivory, the sun engraved upon it.

“It might mean more if you returned it,” said Branhucar.

“I think he would prefer if it came from you instead.”

“All right. Don't run off.”

She stepped outside and found the elves still there, stubbornly waiting while Ren'dar grew impatient. Branhucar took Kyndriel's hand and opened it. He watched, curious, as she placed the amulet there. Then he stared, his hand trembling.

“I know, Kyn,” said Branhucar, giving his arm a pat. “But he cares about you. About _both_ of you,” she added, as Kyndoril frowned at the ceiling. “And if he could fix my bones and Ren'dar then he can fix a busted throat. At least let us see if he can do that?”

Kyndriel sighed and pulled the amulet over his head, and offered his hand again. She took it and walked back with him, Kyndoril close behind them.

Ondolemar greeted them with a bow.

“Dragonborn,” he said. Kyndriel rolled his eyes, and Ondolemar addressed Kyndoril. “Kinlord.”

“You have explaining to do, Dolly,” said Kyndoril.

“For gods' sakes, not here. Kyndriel? I'm told you're injured.”

Whatever Kyndriel tried to say, Ondolemar sighed. “Yes, I'm a dog's arse. Now please sit. This chair, if you will.”

Kyndriel sat and watched as Ondolemar's hands began to glow with magic. Ondolemar began to feel the sides of his neck, then his throat.

“Damaged vocal cords. Days old. I suppose you overdid the Shouting.”

“He was trying to put out an unstoppable fire,” said Branhucar. “It didn't work.”

“On an unstoppable fire? I wonder why. Well, Kyndriel. I'm amazed your lungs are not in worse condition. Now, just relax for a moment....”

The glow between his hands grew brighter. After a moment, he lowered his hands. And Kyndriel blinked and rubbed his throat.

“How do you feel?” asked Ondolemar.

Kyndriel looked at him. At first, he seemed relieved. But then his eyes narrowed. “You took advantage of my father.”

“I... What do you–”

Ondolemar recoiled as a hand struck his cheek.

“You heard me, Ondolemar!”

“Son, wait,” said Kyndoril.

“What now?” Kyndriel snapped.

“I know you must be angry with him. And me. You have so many reasons to be. But do not mistake what we shared for something cruel on his part.”

“How could it not be?”

“Look. Ondolemar was... my only ally in Summerset. He was my advocate. And when he intervened on my behalf, swore responsibility for me, it bound me to him in the eyes of the Thalmor. I owed him my life.”

“Why does that sound familiar,” said Branhucar. “Wait. I know why.”

“This is exactly my point,” said Kyndriel.

Kyndoril waved a hand at him. “On paper, my life debt was one thing. But he had become a friend, and away from the eyes of the Thalmor, we chose a different arrangement. One that Sillawe and I both found very agreeable. The three of us were happy. Ondolemar didn't ask anything of us.”

“Lies,” said Ondolemar. “I implored you to cease your lawbreaking for my own sanity.”

“Except that. He was right. I took too many risks and gambled with more lives than my own. But I am glad that I had such a steadfast accomplice. And agent, now that I think of our time in Auridon. And let us not forget his word, given to Sillawe before she passed.”

“Both of you and your schemes have made it difficult to keep my word, and not for lack of loyalty,” said Ondolemar.

“And you will continue to do so,” said Kyndoril. “Unless I've put my hopes in the wrong mer.”

Kyndriel sighed, but seemed to accept his father's word. He looked at Ondolemar again. “Well, that doesn't change the fact that you lied to me for so long.”

“Lied to you,” repeated Ondolemar. “How, exactly, have I lied to you?”

“You were there for so long. You knew my parents, you were there when I was born, you... you showed up and told me I had to go to Skywatch! You took me away from him and you let me think he was dead!”

Ondolemar shook his head, while the Dragonborn buried his face in his hand.

“Kyndriel,” said Ondolemar. “You are _still_ a foolish child.”

“How dare you?”

“Have you ever stopped to think? Do you not understand what could have happened to you, if you grew too familiar with the Divine Prosecution, let alone any of the Thalmor? I stayed away to protect you! We could not bear to lose you as we lost Sillawe!”

“You had all of Markarth to tell me.” The Dragonborn's voice grew hoarse again. “To tell me any of it. Five years, Ondolemar!”

Ondolemar's face softened. “What mattered was that you lived. Even to despise me. But yes, perhaps I could have told you in Markarth. Told you of your parents. Allowed you to write to your father.”

Kyndriel swallowed. “That would have... exposed him to the Thalmor... if intercepted.”

Ondolemar nodded. “You understand now.”

“No, no I don't.”

“Then try to understand this: I do not regret keeping my secrets. From any of you. But I regret that it had to be done, and that it has brought you pain.”

“You.... Hmph.”

“I've been called worse.”

Kyndriel scowled at him. “Don't. Just... see to my father's wounds, will you.”

“Ah, yes. Ren'dar mentioned more injuries.”

Kyndoril turned and removed his shirt, then gathered his long hair away from his back. Ondolemar paled and stepped closer to inspect.

“The wounds are half-healed,” he whispered. “I'm afraid this time it's going to sting.”

“As much as the lash?” said Kyndoril.

Kyndoril did not flinch or make a sound as Ondolemar cast on his back. Red welts and dark bruises faded to healthier gold. Dried blood fell, pushed away by new skin. But thick white streaks still crossed his back, even as Ondolemar redoubled his efforts.

“Exactly how bad is it, Ondolemar?” Kyndoril asked, as the spell was cast a third time.

Ondolemar finally gave up. “Well. With a few more days' care, medicine, I can purge whatever infection lurked in your wounds. We may even prevent lasting nerve pain. But there is little more I can do for the scars.”

Kyndoril reached to feel his back. “I was already scarred from my days in Riften. I can bear a few more if nobody else has to.”

“I don't know what I'm going to tell her if you keep this up.”

“Tell her that she was right. That I needed you as much as you needed me.”

Kyndriel looked at Branhucar, then motioned to the tent flap. She nodded in agreement and they made a prudent exit. As they left, she heard one more angry outburst from Kyndoril.

“But you are _not_ off the hook for terrorizing my children!”

–

“Are you all right? Branhucar asked.

She and Kyndriel sat a short way off from the Summerset Shadows camp. There was nowhere to go but the caves. But there was a break in the rock. Sneaking out and the chance of getting spotted by guards, Thalmor or otherwise, were unthinkable. But they could view the sea in the distance, and Kyndriel wanted nothing but to sit there and look out at the sunlight off the waves.

Kyndriel shrugged. “I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel when my father told us about his past. I don't think I can hate Ondolemar. But I'm not exactly happy with him. Why does my father even tolerate him?”

“Well he is a bastard. I mean, Ondolemar, not your dad.”

“You're not wrong in any case. Being a bastard runs in my family.”

Branhucar snorted. “Ondolemar might have his reasons for being a bastard, but I get it. It wasn't the same for me, but, you were there at Markarth.”

“It's been almost a year, hasn't it... you insubordinate little pest,” Kyndriel grinned.

“You know you loved it.”

“Actually, you gave me the worst anxiety I'd had in years.”

“Oh, _you_ had anxiety?”

“Fine, fine. But yes. As long as Ondolemar is Ondolemar he will drive us all up the walls. Especially if it's for our own good. Bastard.”

“Spies, am I right?”

“Spies. Lorkhan take them all.”

Another voice greeted them from behind: “This one could not help but overhear that you are unhappy with spies.”

Kyndriel jumped. “Ren'dar, you... you are a good spy. You don't count.”

Branhucar turned around just in time to see Ren'dar grin and say, “That is the first thing you say to Ren'dar when you get your voice back? How impolite!”

“Oh, all right,” said Kyndriel. “It's good to see you again. And look at you! You've grown a mane!”

“What, this old thing?” Ren'dar ran a hand through his new head of thick, black hair. “Ah yes. You knew Ren'dar but you did not know Ren'dar! And Ren'dar should have a mane. It was Ondolemar, you see.”

“Ah, he helped you grow that? With magic?”

“With alchemy! It was so hard to find the reagents to make the mane grow with the Thalmor watching our every move. But after we left? Ren'dar can have a mane, and a new voice, and more energy! There is so much you can do with alchemy and a needle in the arse.”

His voice was a bit deeper than Branhucar remembered. Suddenly, Ondolemar's words to her took a whole new meaning.

“Does it have to be in the ass?” she asked.

“That is what Ren said too.”

“Well congratulations,” said Kyndriel. “If you don't mind, there's something else I've wanted to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“So, you and Ondolemar....”

Ren'dar nodded.

“And you called me a cub or kitten the whole time we've known each other.”

“Ah.... How to explain.... A long time ago, Ondolemar told this one that he had an old lover, who he missed terribly, who had a cub of his own. That he swore an oath to the cub's mother to protect him. When Ondolemar rescued the cub from Chorrol, Ren'dar decided that he would be safe and looked after. He was not sure if he could ever be anything like a father....”

“Oh, Ren'dar....”

Ren'dar grinned. “But now that he has the mane, he must accept responsibility and be a dad!”

Kyndriel slapped his own forehead. “Ren'dar. I'm still trying to come to terms with a few things. I really don't need _more_ dads right now.”

“Don't you talk to your father that way.”

“This is so strange. Aren't you fifty yourself?”

“Young mer,” Ren'dar pointed at Kyndriel, then back to himself. “Middle-aged cat. Thief. Atronach. Khajiit is your elder in all ways, cub.”

“I suppose you always acted the part of a father away from Markarth well enough.”

“Now you are just flattering Ren'dar. He would do so many things differently. Like not let Ondolemar make stupid decisions, and not let the young elf wander off in a sad mood.”

“Well, what are fathers if not complete de'nts from time to time?”

Ren'dar shrugged. “Well, this time he has tea and moon sugar biscuits and two ears if they are needed. There is plenty of time, while we wait.”

“Wait for what.”

“Eh. Bastard spy things.”


	19. Nirncrux

Life in the caverns under Wayrest was peaceful – a welcome retreat from everything that High Rock had inflicted on them. Ondolemar gave them days to rest and recover from their ordeal. The mer himself was busy, but he kept his secrets from them while Ren'dar and other Shadows disappeared into the city above. What they were after, Ondolemar wouldn't tell them. Even Ren'dar could not be persuaded to talk.

Perhaps Ondolemar and Ren'dar were afraid for their safety. The Thalmor had a special hatred for those who embarrassed them with escape. Two jailbreaks in a year were unforgivable, as Branhucar heard Ondolemar warn Kyndoril one afternoon.

“If they catch you now, even I won't be able to save you.”

“Well, there's always Hammerfell,” said Kyndoril.

Ondolemar glared at him. “Kyndoril. You would find a way to provoke the Thalmor if I placed you in _Lilmoth_.”

But in the end, Ondolemar announced that he had something to share with them. They gathered around a table in the main tent, sitting on chairs and stools of varying quality that the Shadows had 'rescued from abandonment' in the city above.

“What do you want from us, then?” asked Kyndriel.

Ondolemar and Ren'dar looked at each other. The latter wore a blank look that didn't suit him. Ondolemar gestured to a map of the region spread over the table.

“Now, we give you the benefit of the doubt, of course. But the Thalmor seem to think that you've fallen in with a band of arsonists and murderers.”

“Yes, we know. They think we burned part of Northpoint.”

“Oh, no. You of all mer, Kyndriel, should know that the Thalmor _lie_ to justify what becomes of dissidents and humans. Northpoint's tragedy was the perfect excuse to give their justiciars such a long reach in their search for you. But something else drew their concern.

“Ren'dar tells me that when they stripped you of your belongings, they also confiscated one ring bearing a lion and flame crest. Evidence linking you to a rather unwholesome bunch calling themselves the last true men of the west. The only worthy heirs of the Empire. Or simply Lions.”

“What? We got it from the Duke of Alcaire,” said Branhucar. “I... I told the Thalmor that.”

“Yes, and your cooperation with the Thalmor has made things... interesting. The Thalmor want to know why Alcaire's lord claims the same symbol as these Lions.”

“His soldiers were the Knights of the Lion,” said Kyndriel. “Come on, doesn't that sound a bit too obvious?”

“So obvious that it is unbelievable,” said Ondolemar. “One would hate to think that a lord of High Rock would be responsible for so much death and destruction. But Thalmor intelligence, ill-gained as it may be, is usually reliable. The Wayrest guard did apprehend one of our arsonists. A symbol matching yours was found in his possessions before his execution. A shame that justice was so swift. Wayrest might have pried something from him first.”

“The guards found Elouan's crest and did nothing?”

“There are too many possibilities, you see. Wayrest itself has little trouble from Alcaire and no reason to connect this pattern to your duke. But Dreughside is... was an elven slum. As far as Wayrest is concerned, yet another soldier of High Rock strayed from his duties and decided to vent his hatred of elvenkind. They do not grasp the bigger picture. The rash of violence across the kingdoms. Nor are they party to the details that the Thalmor have. That we in the shadows borrow for ourselves.

“Of course, our intelligence is limited to secondhand information,” Ondolemar continued. “Now that we've confirmed this is Elouan's symbol.... Well, we have quite a problem on our hands.”

“Has he no loyalty to his subjects?” Kyndriel said. “His own queen?”

“Was Ulfric loyal to Torygg? Or the mer and betmer among his subjects? What did you see and hear when Elouan dealt with you three in his own court, I wonder.”

Kyndriel sighed. “Contempt. Bare contempt for us, for elves and Reachmen. And our pasts, damn his spies. But... he wanted a Dragonborn. He wanted _me_ to uphold Akatosh's covenant with Mankind by doing him a service. I... I agreed to help the people of the bay. I did not imagine that he ran a band of... of jackbooted cravens. At least... not until....”

“Black Wastes,” said Kyndoril. “Have your Shadows told you about the bridge over the Bjoulsae River and its dragon, Ondolemar?”

Ren'dar gave a soft hiss. “Oh, we knew. Months ago, this one saw the fins too late as we crossed from Evermore. He never thought that there would be a dragon in the ocean, but there it was. It gave us a fright and said something in the dragon language. But Ren'dar and Ondolemar do not speak their tongue. We ran.”

“What did it do?” asked Branhucar.

“Nothing! When we looked back, the dragon was just watching us. We saw it swim away and dive back into the sea. And that was that.”

“It was later that we heard of its violence,” said Ondolemar. “Or, to be more precise, its refusal to tolerate soldiers and trade caravans.”

“I tried to speak to it,” said Kyndriel. “It became enraged and Shouted a hurricane.”

“Then what?” asked Ren'dar.

“We ran away, of course. And the hurricane went on for a week.”

“You... did not just clear the skies as you did at High Hrothgar, when the Greybeards refused to let us see Paarthurnax?”

Kyndriel said nothing. And then, after several uncomfortable seconds: “Well it was the biggest dragon I'd ever seen and it would have just put it back, I'm sure.”

“No, no. Ren'dar is used to being the one who thinks fast. Besides, he knows elves from Alinor are scared of hurricanes.”

Ondolemar chose then to rescue Kyndriel. “Your father just suggested that Alcaire intervened. How so?”

“After the hurricane passed, the Knights of the Lion arrived with weapons made of red metal and drove the dragon back into the bay. They sent us to Wayrest afterward and told us to deliver the news to Queen Barynia. That's how we were caught up in the disaster with the fires. We saw them from the road and rushed to help put them out. Obviously that didn't work and we never met with the queen.”

Ren'dar's smile had vanished, replaced by dilated pupils and flat ears. Ondolemar too looked disturbed.

“Yes, it does sound like a trap for us now that I've gone over it aloud,” said Kyndriel. “Er.... What are you two...?”

“This... red metal,” said Ondolemar. “Did it have any... particular qualities? Anything unsettling about it?”

“Yes,” they all replied.

“It was shocking,” said Kyndriel. “And my father felt unwell after laying eyes on it.”

“Hold on,” said Branhucar, combing through her memories. “That's not the first time, right? Kyn, do you remember what we found under Northpoint?”

“That... but that was... horrible. Stendarr's mercy, to even think of it is.... None of us actually passed out or suffered nightmares from it in Black Wastes. But....”

“Nirncrux,” said Ren'dar.

“What?”

“It is called Nirncrux, cub. It is the blood of Lorkhaj, in its most dangerous form. Except maybe the freshly spilled blood itself, but we have no Lorkhaj to bleed and find out.”

“How do you know this?” asked Kyndriel.

Ren'dar shivered visibly and rubbed his arms. “This one... laid eyes on it during the passage from Skyrim. And he heard the beating of the Doom Drum. When he woke, he was terrified. He thought that his fur would be dark as the Great Darkness, and his black stripes would be blue like the stars. But Ondolemar promised his fur was still his. He is still Ren'dar, and his soul is safe for now.”

“Why were you scared of that?”

“This one was.... This one... has done things.”

“Khajiit are attuned to both Aetherius and the Void as no one else can be, all because of Azura,” said Kyndoril. “Her Lunar Lattice bridges the realms of the Aurbis. And through this, Lorkhaj may touch the souls of Khajiit long before they pass. It is said that when evil Khajiit hear the beating of his tainted heart, they begin to change into Dro-m'Athra, and are doomed to his realm when they die.”

“I feel like this explains something about Sovngarde,” said Kyndriel. “Oh, Ren'dar! Please don't cry. You're not actually a terrible person, you know.”

“This one is not crying,” said Ren'dar. “This one just has dust in his eyes. Besides. When Ren'dar calmed down, Ondolemar told him that he suffered a nightmare as well.”

Ondolemar shook his head. “It was nonsense. But the point is, that metal is cursed beyond belief. Exposure can induce anything from anxiety to loss of consciousness, and over time, illness of the mind. There are old legends of tribes of Nords and Reachmen using it for their own ends, all ending in tragedy. Blacksmiths and swordmasters would be taken by unquenchable bloodlust. Captives made to mine it suffered despair and paranoia, convinced that Shor would strike them down, and many ended their own lives to escape.”

“A name for the terror beneath the Rift, then,” said Kyndoril. “I told you I played the priest, didn't I? That I heard confessions? But I never had a name for what plagued those miners, and drove them to the unthinkable.”

“Well, I don't know about _all_ of that,” said Kyndriel. “But when we found what we did in Northpoint, every mer who laid eyes on it fainted and had terrible, vivid nightmares. The Bretons were all fine, except our Bran.”

“Ah, yes,” said Ondolemar, looking at her carefully. “But I am told the Reachmen in your mother's time had a few mer among their number.”

“Yeah, so dad was a Bosmer. But... how much else do you know about Nirncrux?” Branhucar asked him. “Because.... Because I'm thinking something....”

The talk of strange, rare metal and its curse had brought something else to mind. Talk of cursed wounds.

“What would happen,” she asked, “if you hurt someone with a blade made of Nirncrux?”

“The pain and the extent of the injury would be unthinkable,” said Ondolemar. “According to legend, even small wounds inflicted by Nirncrux are nigh impossible to close, and inevitably lethal.”

“We heard of a man that bled to death after getting a cut that wouldn't heal. In Norvulk. And then a bunch of Sheor cultists killed the herbalist. We ended up figuring it out and....”

The battle over Norvulk rushed back to the front of her mind. She pushed it down.

“You think the cultists had Nirncrux, then,” said Kyndriel.

“Well, not them, or we'd be dead,” said Branhucar.

“Not a scratch on us though.”

“I got hit plenty. I just didn't bleed, 'cause normal weapon couldn't hurt me then. But... there had to be Nirncrux somewhere if that's really what killed the man. Remember that blacksmith's wife? What she said? The blacksmith and Nagoth died after seeing an amazing sword, but... who had they met besides Elouan's knights? And we know for a fact that his knights have Nirncrux.”

“Sounds like we should have patted those corpses down when we were done with them,” said Kyndoril. “With or without Nirncrux, these little coincidences are overwhelming.”

“No, it's worse,” said Kyndriel. “We found Nirncrux under Northpoint. Elouan's men were shipping metal from Northpoint to the south, right? Think, what else did we find in Northpoint? Kindlepitch! Elouan must have plotted all of it. And... I think the only reason we found the Nirncrux there... is because our sea dragon was blocking the other route. Let me guess. Was it Hammerfell, Ren'dar?”

“Yes,” said Ren'dar. “It was beyond Elinhir, on the road that leads to the Bangkorai Pass. And Evermore.”

“Then it is clear,” said Kyndriel. “If the Thalmor intelligence is correct, Elouan and his men are villains. Even if it isn't, if the evidence we've seen with our own eyes means anything....”

“Oh? Then what will you do, Dragonborn?” asked Ondolemar.

“Well... whatever I'm going to do, I cannot ignore this. Elouan must answer one way or another for the things we've found. And if he has ambitions of being the next Ulfric Stormcloak, they must end, and soon.”

“Yes,” said Kyndoril. “If it is all true, Elouan must die.”

“I– Father, that is still shocking to hear from you.”

“I have always preferred to act with a gentle hand. But it cannot be so when confronting such malice.”

“So you plan to march on Alcaire and slay the duke yourselves?” said Ondolemar.

“If... if it comes to that,” said Kyndriel.

“We can handle him,” said Branhucar. “Just like we handled Norvulk's cultists.”

“But... there is one little problem,” said Kyndriel. “As you know... the Thalmor took everything in our possession. You found our mothers' things. But we can't ask you to dig up a pile of armor and swords.”

“I don't need a sword,” said Branhucar. “I can conjure whatever I need.”

Kyndoril folded his arms. “That reminds me. I'm not going to stop you, but you must take more care with your summoning if you insist on borrowing from Oblivion again.”

“And you can't wear a frost atronach,” said Ondolemar. “We can resupply you again. High Rock has an abundance of plate and mail just lying around. I swear, every Breton here goes through at least one knight phase.”


	20. The Lion's Maw

Despite her boast, Branhucar accepted the plate and steel blade offered to her. The weight of the metal and padding had once seemed tiresome to wear, but after the vulnerability inflicted in Wayrest, they were welcome. The suit provided was not quite as showy as the one given in Alcaire, but the Shadows had woven magic into it. It was more protective, in a way she could not place, but did not dare to examine more closely on the chance that she might go too far and send it to the same fate as their boat.

Kyndriel wore a full helm with his armor. It had the advantage of hiding his face from the Thalmor and his elven ears from all onlookers. Not being able to see his pretty face was a necessary sacrifice.

His father did not want much metal beyond the swords given to him. It was too noisy and distracting, he said. And he preferred something faster to don and doff. Ondolemar relented and gave him spare leathers from the Shadows, after seeing to it that it was enchanted to match the toughness of steel.

“I have a feeling that Wayrest still needs your attention,” Kyndriel said to Ren'dar, who watched their preparations with interest, but never once moved as if to join them.

“Unfortunately. Ondolemar has a role to play here. And Ren'dar must be his eyes where he cannot go. But he thinks you will be just fine. He leaves the sneaky business to the Gray Fox.”

“Ondolemar told you about that, I take it.”

“No. Ondolemar is a _keeper_ of secrets. It was your father.”

Kyndriel's brow furrowed. “Why would he tell you that?”

The corners of Ren'dar mouth twitched for a few seconds, and then he burst out laughing. When he finally composed himself and found Kyndriel mortified, Ren'dar shook his head and simply told him, “Kyndoril is very talkative when he wants to be.”

Kyndriel had trouble meeting his father's eyes for a few minutes after that.

When all farewells were said, they found a tunnel out to the beach, just out of the sight of the patrols. The morning skies were clouded and gray and the waves high. But there was none of the menace of another hurricane in the weather. And they trudged west, away from the castle walls, away from Wayrest. And soon, the forest shielded them again.

–

Their journey from Wayrest to Alcaire was grim and indirect. The Thalmor would predict them, said Kyndriel, and they would watch the roads for weeks. The woods and hills were safer. Night was preferable to day, at least for passing crossroads that were likely watched.

Over a week passed before the Wrothgarian Mountains loomed again, and their path grew more hilly and rough. Carved stone jutted from the ground in strange places. The beech forest had overtaken the ruins of a village. But there was a foreboding stillness in the air. Even the bugs had stopped singing.

Branhucar looked around the trees, and recognized it as the area between Waridge and Alcaire. For there was a dread chill that suggested lingering spirits, but it was... suppressed.

She thought of the first ghost they'd met after leaving Alcaire. The Orcish guard. The first of many who had tried to warn them to turn back, two-hundred years after their own deaths. Their words made more sense, but how could the ghosts have known?

“This place isn't haunted anymore,” Branhucar said. “It's... cursed.”

“There is a pained emptiness where there was once unease,” said Kyndoril. “I fear that Waridge did not heed our warning.”

Kyndriel sighed. “Father, given what it did to an invulnerable dragon, do you think that Nirncrux could banish a spirit that could not be harmed before?”

“I hate to think it, but I doubt this was anything as kind as banishment. There is so much wrong in this air. And I can think of no way to ease the pain of it now. We should hurry.”

–

The atmosphere of Alcaire was strange when they entered the city. They followed the dull roar of many voices toward the keep and found the grounds besieged by dozens of nervous townspeople. Kyndriel pushed his way through with Branhucar in his wake and Kyndoril close behind, until they found a wall of beleaguered guards. Those nearest looked uneasily at the trio as they approached.

“Turn around and go back!”

They would be so easy to sweep aside, thought Branhucar. Just one transformation and a swipe of her arm....

“No, not yet,” Kyndoril whispered.

Branhucar looked up at him. He winked.

“Is there some trouble inside?” Kyndriel asked.

“Nothing that concerns you. Let the knights handle it. They don't need you getting in the way.”

“If Duke Elouan is in some danger, I should go to him,” said Kyndriel. “I owe him a great deal, you see. I wouldn't be here if not for him.”

The guards scrutinized him, then turned their attention to Branhucar and Kyndoril. “Your funeral, but the elf stays out.”

“Who, me?” asked Kyndoril.

“Do you see any other elves here?”

Kyndriel cleared his throat. “The _elf_ is essential. We have no other healer.”

“Do you think you're going to need one?” said the guard. “Then you have no business here.”

“I'll wait outside,” said Kyndoril. “Actually, no. I'll be getting drunk. We'll see each other later, hm?”

He patted Kyndriel on the shoulder and disappeared back into the crowd, presumably to find a way around the backs of the guards.

“Let us pass,” said Kyndriel.

The guards stepped aside. Branhucar followed Kyndriel up the steps, beyond the garden and fountain.

“So what now?” Branhucar whispered.

“We trust the old mer, of course,” he said. “'The elf stays out.' Bah. Can you believe they didn't suspect me?”

“Actually, you could be a tall human in that,” said Branhucar. “Not quite Altmer sized.”

“And _you're_ not exactly a titan among Bretons yourself.”

“Not in this form I'm not.”

“Not yet,” said Kyndriel. “But we may need that soon enough....”

They found a different commotion just inside. The throne room was blocked by more guards, watching intently as an elf in quilted, dark silk robes stood before the duke. Kyndriel picked his way through the guards, ignoring their stares and the fists that clenched around their weapons.

“What is it now?” Elouan demanded. “I will have no more interruptions in this court!”

Kyndriel reached up and lifted his helm from his head. “I heard there was some trouble here?”

“Ah, Dragonborn?” Elouan's voice rose in pitch. “Very well. Let him come forward.” As the guards made way for them, Elouan continued. “Well, Dragonborn, I don't suppose you've come all this way just to help me deal with this menace.”

Kyndriel strode forward. “That would depend on the menace.”

Elouan's mouth hung open. Kyndriel stepped in front of the duke's visitor, then smiled. “Verandis! You look... well! Alarmingly well. Actually.”

Branhucar stepped closer for a better look. Verandis' face and eyes did have a healthier color to them.

“Your timing is fortuitous,” said Verandis. “And it gladdens me to see you well and whole, Kyndriel. But I'm afraid we don't have much time for pleasantries. And I'd advise you not to turn your back on that man.”

“Dragonborn?” said Elouan. “You know this fiend?”

“Fiend? Now what makes you think so poorly of him?”

“Can you not see what he is!”

Kyndriel pretended to give Verandis a long, careful look. “Duke Elouan, it disappoints me that you have so little trust for elvenkind.”

“He's a vampire!”

“He is your peer and a trusted ally of High Rock. He had High King Emeric's friendship in his day. I would advise you to consider that before you pass judgment on him.”

“This thrall of Oblivion barged into my court with nothing to offer but treasonous words and demands.”

Kyndriel shrugged. “Well, I'm sure the mer has his reasons. But perhaps this is all a misunderstanding? I know Count Verandis Ravenwatch to be reasonable, and I think that a simple discussion would ease his concerns. And I must admit, Your Grace, I've concerns of my own.”

“Enough. If you have no business in my court and no loyalty to Alcaire, then you may remove yourself from my castle.”

“Oh, I have business here,” said Kyndriel. “We've just had a stay in Wayrest. Your men sent us there to meet with Queen Barynia, on your orders. We were told to expect a message from Alcaire.” Anger broke into his voice. “Instead, we found alchemical arson to rival the Night of Green Fire, and a host of Thalmor ready to receive us. What were you saying, Elouan, about your queen denying the Thalmor in her lands?”

“I am not party to the whims of my queen. If the Empire has persuaded her to open her city to the Dominion, that is one more issue to contend with.”

“We suffered days at the hands of the Thalmor, only to learn that the very symbol of your will, the ring you gave us, is the same crest carried by the arsonists who razed Dreughside. The same people who attacked Northpoint while the Thalmor framed us for their crimes!”

Elouan said nothing.

Verandis shook his head. “You're very direct, Dragonborn. I will say this: we have this man to thank for our first meeting.”

Kyndriel paused, and Branhucar knew what he was thinking. The grain and apples at Bal's altar. The dead man they'd found as they approached Coldharbour. If only they had searched him.

“Well, Elouan?" said Kyndriel. "Do you have anything to say in your own defense? Or else in condemnation of these evils carried out in your name? Or shall we take your silence as proof of your guilt?”

Elouan finally rose from his throne and addressed the room.

“Men of Alcaire! This elf, this so-called Dragonborn, is nothing more than yet another spineless enemy of Man. A twisted half-breed, the bastard spawn of a Falmer, the ancient enemy of our noble race who would have seen us all put to the sword rather than live to outnumber our elven masters! And he would gladly hand your lives to the Thalmor who raised him out of the dirt!”

“You serpent-tongued daedra!” Kyndriel roared. “You know _nothing_ of what you slander!”

“Silence! I do not know how you stole the holy gifts of Akatosh, elf, but you will regret that you ever defiled Ysmir!”

“Filthy, racist swine!” Branhucar yelled. “You can take your Ysmir and shove him up your ass! Kyndriel is twice the Dragonborn he ever was!”

“And yet his actions spelled the end of Skyrim! I will not allow the same to happen to my kingdom!”

“Your kingdom,” repeated Kyndriel. “I've heard enough. Elouan, you are a traitor to your subjects, to the people of High Rock, and your queen. There is no need to waste life. Surrender, order your men to stand down, and the only one to die today will be you.”

Elouan shook, but Branhucar knew it wasn't fear. He threw back his head and quaked with laughter. “By whose authority do you sentence me, elf?”

“By House Ravenwatch!” declared Verandis. “And I daresay the Duke of Northpoint and King of Shornhelm will approve of my judgment.”

“You would sponsor us?” Kyndriel whispered. “You honor us, Verandis.”

“We are allies in this nightmare. And I repay my debts.”

Elouan raised a hand. And there were sounds of steel being drawn, of metal boots edging nearer. The guards encircled them. Kyndriel sighed and replaced his helm.

Branhucar called upon the form of the wolf, and found the room a bit more cramped. And she prepared herself for the sight of blood and other things that had no business outside a body. “**Last warning, or it gets nasty.**”

She looked at the others, and saw Verandis replaced by a tall creature covered in thick brown fur, with the wings and head of a bat. Verandis drew back his lips and revealed fangs the size of daggers. “**Your men have kept me well-fed, and still you offer more. How generous.”**

“Men,” said Duke Elouan. “Get rid of this filth.”

The guards hesitated. Branhucar turned and surveyed them. Those nearest to her watched with fearful eyes. One of them wet himself as she bared her teeth and feigned a step closer.

“Your men are smarter than you, Elouan,” said Kyndriel.

“I think they're just in need of a bit of inspiration.”

Elouan drew his sword. The blade gleamed blood-red from point to hilt. As Kyndriel reeled, the guards rallied.

The throne room descended into chaos. As guards charged, Branhucar gathered her strength and raked with claws that she knew would rend armor.

Three fell.

Don't think, she reminded herself.

Her ears caught distant shouts and she focused her senses in the direction of the doors. Steel rang, men screamed. Men fell. Footsteps, close.

She snatched a guard and threw him by the legs across the hall. He landed in a heap and struggled, screaming, to rise from the floor. His knees were backwards.

Don't think....

Kyndoril emerged, blood dripping from his steel and silver swords. He approached the fallen guard, but turned as a handful of men charged him.

Branhucar threw herself forward and felt steel brush her hide. Kyndoril's attackers recoiled, but not fast enough.

She turned to see Elouan advancing on the Dragonborn. She wrenched the nearest enemy off his footing to sling him across the room. His scream was cut short, his chest a new sheath for a Nirncrux blade. Elouan wrenched his sword out and stepped over the body without another glance for it.

Don't think!

“FUS RO DAH!”

Branhucar saw Elouan brace, but he could not resist the force of the winds that threw him back, slammed him into the wall above his own throne. He slid, then fell and landed with a thud. The Nirncrux blade, blasted out of his hands, rang and spun to a halt on the flagstones where it had fallen.

Branhucar sprinted toward them, then stopped.

There was something murky about the pommel of the red blade....

Kyndriel gripped his sword and strode to the back of the room, but Elouan jerked to his feet and drew steel instead. And he faced the Dragonborn with the wild eyes and snarl of a cornered beast.

“Enough,” said the Dragonborn. “There is no need to drag out your suffering.”

“Do not... mock me... you accursed worm!”

Duke Elouan screamed and threw himself at Kyndriel. And his assault was deflected once. Twice. Before he could follow through, Kyndriel lunged.

The Duke of Alcaire fell, pierced clean through. As blood rushed from his already-lifeless body, the battle ended. The guard abandoned their last order, some choosing to flee, some staring in disbelief at the Dragonborn or the corpses around them.

Kyndriel nudged the body with his boot. When Elouan did not stir, he lowered his sword and turned away.

“Well,” he said. “That is the end of this. Elouan is dead. We need to... get the hell out of here. Now.”

He started walking. And as Branhucar felt fatigue close in, she allowed herself to become human again.

At least her gauntlets weren't soaked with blood.

Verandis folded his wings to his back. **“You have done what needed to be done, and High Rock is safer for it. May this redeem you in the eyes of High Rock... and those who hunted you for his crimes.”**

“Were it that simple,” said Kyndriel. And then his eyes fell on Kyndoril. “Glad you made it. Now let's....”

Kyndoril's shoulders slumped. And with no other warning, he staggered and collapsed.

“Father?”

They rushed to him, and watched in horror as Kyndoril shivered uncontrollably.

“**Turn him on his side!” **said Verandis. **“Gently!”**

Before they could do anything else, the room darkened. Torches and lamps extinguished themselves, and the air sat useless in her chest as her heart began to race. Sunlight and fire were replaced by a red glow, coming from behind....

Branhucar turned, then gasped. A shimmering red mist had enshrouded Elouan's corpse, and risen like smoke to take the shape of a giant. But in the shape, where the heart should have been, there was a hole.

Her heart pounded in her ears. And she still couldn't breathe.

The room began to shake, as wooden frame groaned and the ceiling began to rain dust and shards of stone. All while the thing in front of them pulsed and grew with the sound of a beating drum.

Kyndriel struggled, fought to lift himself from the floor. Golden light flickered under his visor....

Verandis was his own shape again. And he could still move. She saw him face the creature, a long ash staff in his hands. They were surrounded by something dark, some kind of shield, while the ground heaved and the thing grew brighter....

When she woke, the ceiling was gone. And the moons – both moons – cast a bloody glow across the skies and the ruins of Alcaire.


	21. Requiem for Alcaire

“Father? Father, wake up!”

“Peace, Kyndriel. Something torments him, but life still flows strongly within him.”

Kyndriel knelt next to Verandis, who sat with Kyndoril cradled in his arms. The mer looked fast asleep, but his face was clenched in pain. A golden sheen rippled over his body. Proof that he was alive, asleep.

Maybe he was praying again, thought Branhucar. Somehow. In his sleep. She almost envied him.

“This again,” Kyndriel whimpered. “We don't have time for this! We need to leave!”

“Do you know what caused this?” Verandis asked. “Why was he the first to fall to that creature?”

“It's... Lorkhan. What else could that _thing_ have been?”

“That doesn't explain his state.”

Kyndriel looked down at his father's limp body again. “He actually... worships Lorkhan,” he admitted. “His life has been cruel to him and he turned to Lorkhan for protection. And Lorkhan... actually shielded him from Coldharbour before we found you. I saw it myself, and I can't deny it. But... he seems so much more affected by his blood and... and... that thing.”

“You and Branhucar seem to share his horror.”

Branhucar met Kyndriel's eyes as he looked up at her. She nodded.

“We do,” said Kyndriel, turning his gaze to what remained of a wall. “None of us can stand to see Nirncrux. I don't think any mer can. But my father.... Why does Lorkhan torment him, of all mer! And you feel nothing?”

“Nothing,” said Verandis. “And I know what red blades like Elouan's should have done to me, but I mend all the same. A nice little surprise for the first Lion who tried to end me.”

Kyndriel sighed. “Well. I think that is the only thing that saved us here.”

Alcaire had been reduced to rubble. The keep had been destroyed, the throne room the center of the blast of magicka that wracked the entire city. Beyond that, there was little telling of what had become of the world beyond the castle walls. Only that the moons themselves had been touched somehow, and now glared down at Nirn as if aflame.

“You mentioned a debt,” Kyndriel said, voice shaking. “But we are the ones who owe you our lives.”

He bowed. But Verandis looked uncomfortable.

“I did what needed to be done,” said Verandis. “What I would do for anyone. You owe me nothing.”

Kyndriel sat up, but before he could speak again, Verandis continued: “Truthfully, I am still indebted. I was prepared to accept death after biting you in Coldharbour.”

“What?”

“There was just one wish, on the tip of my tongue. Not for my life, but my soul. For someone to consecrate my remains, that I might escape Molag Bal in death, as I never had in life. But I never had to ask. You insisted on sparing me.”

“I did. But....”

“I was indebted to you, all for the sake of mercy when you had every reason to let me die. But did I simply owe you? Or did I also owe your father for his restraint in the end? Or... you, Branhucar,” Verandis said, looking at her, “for your kindness to break my chains without needing a reason? These are all things I feel that I can never fully repay. Certainly not by doing one thing for you in one grim instance of life and death.”

“But I never once considered you indebted to me,” said Kyndriel.

“Really? Are you sure? Summerset has strange ideas of mercy and repaying it in bondage.”

“We do. But Summerset broke up my family, and demanded that my ailing mother suffer, and denied my father even to pray! To Oblivion with praxis! You didn't deserve to _die!_”

Verandis smiled. “So, why should I hold your lives over any of you?”

Kyndriel stared at him like he had grown a second head, then sighed. “You are... a strange master vampire.”

“I'm flattered! And... I have another idea. None of you are indebted to me. But I would humbly ask for your assistance, in dealing with... whatever this is.” Verandis gestured with his free hand at the red sky.

Kyndriel looked up and his voice gave way to despair again.“What can even be done?”

“I don't know,” said Verandis. “But I would be remiss if I let that stop me. Elouan may be dead, but if this is the result of his death, then our work isn't done. So let us end our talk of debts and remain allies.”

“I'd like that.”

“Yeah,” Branhucar chimed in. “We could use all the help we can get, if we're going to deal with....” She stared at the moons. How were they going to reach the moons? “Oh, Malacath's hammer. We're screwed.”

Kyndoril twitched and shifted where he lay. The glow began to fade. Verandis looked down. “Well, look who's back among the living.”

Kyndoril squinted at him. “Is... is that you? Randy...?”

“Ahem. We have company.”

Kyndoril sat up abruptly. But then his eyes widened, and he turned where he sat to take in the scene. “Verandis? Children? What is this! What's happened here!”

“After Elouan died,” said Branhucar, “and you... fell... this red ghost just came out of his body and blew up. Verandis protected us. But Alcaire is... Alcaire's been....”

“Utterly destroyed,” finished Kyndriel.

“It is worse,” said Verandis. “The creature that formed cast a beacon of unholy light into the skies. And now it's as if the very moons bleed.”

Kyndoril looked up at the moons, and for several worrying moments did not break his gaze.

“Are you gonna be all right?” asked Branhucar.

“They say the moons are Lorkhan's corpse, or what remains of it,” said Kyndoril, finally averting his eyes from the heavens. “Elouan must have given himself to Sheor in life. We know that. But how could he have managed something like this?”

“What did he do?”

“I... I don't think I can say. Some ritual involving Nirncrux, perhaps. If that is why they needed so much of it. Do not ask me any more, for I will say no more of it.”

“Father, please," said Kyndriel, "you can't just say these things and then expect us not to ask....”

“I am sorry. But tempting the trickster with such questions should be done with care.”

“All right then,” said Branhucar. “But you know Lorkhan best. And this is... your thing, right? Champion of Cyrodiil? Where do we go from here?”

“I wasn't exactly a genius, back then. I had the guidance of Martin and Uriel, and your parents, and the Nerevarine of all people.”

“The what.”

“Rhylus. Oh, what I wouldn't give to see that old mer now! I'm as lost as all of you.”

“What about the Divines?”

Kyndoril frowned. “I fear they have their own battles to see to.”

“Okay. Nocturnal?”

“I don't think she would find any reason to help us, or offer any bargain that would not end in sorrow.”

Verandis stood up. “We march west. Into Glenumbra, the heart of High Rock itself. I understand that my lord in Rivenspire has allies there. Friendships we will not find in the duchies of Stormhaven, for all their treachery, and I dare not impose on the queen. But Glenumbra holds a wealth of knowledge and wisdom, magics passed down since the Merethic. I believe the Mages Guild will be eager to assist.”

“The Mages Guild was abolished by the Empire.”

“What!”

“The people of Cyrodiil became afraid of elves and magic again two centuries ago and ceased all funding.”

“The Mages Guild was an institution of Summerset, was it not? In fact, I still remember Vanus Galerion's visit to Shornhelm, when he asked for permission to open halls in Rivenspire.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. Vanus took one glance at me and tried to return me to Oblivion himself. I survived because he didn't believe a vampire could hide in a church.”

“Oh, I forget how long you've been in Coldharbour. But, maybe you have a point. I don't think the people of High Rock would let so much knowledge go to waste. Maybe it's worth a visit to Daggerfall.”

“But now I'm uncertain,” said Verandis. “If what you say is true, then perhaps we should treat with Balfiera. They are masters of the arcane and would have much to offer us. That is, if the Direnni still govern the isle?”

“They do.”

“Then let us waste no time.”

Kyndriel's voice was flat. “There was a giant raging sea dragon in the Iliac Bay the last time we checked. And we have no way to be sure if it's bled to death from its Nirncrux wounds or if it made a miraculous recovery.”

“We make for Daggerfall,” said Verandis.

“Wait,” said Kyndoril. “There's something that must be done before we go.”

“Yes?”

“There may still be life here.”

Verandis shook his head. “Look for it if you wish. But you, hunter, know how I find my meals. We have been alone since the instant of Alcaire's destruction.”

Kyndoril stared at him. And then Branhucar felt a rush of magicka sweep over her. Kyndoril waited for a minute, then pressed a hand to his eyes. “Then... I still have one duty to these people.” His voice wavered. “Please. Let us wait until dawn.”

They agreed for his sake.

–

As morning broke, the light of the sun seemed at first to drive the moons' unnatural glow away with a golden light. But then the sky was painted a strange shade of violet that would not lift, no matter how long they waited. This new light fell on countless bodies, already desiccated and thin. As if what had killed them had consumed them from the inside.

They were the reason Kyndoril waited to leave. He led Branhucar and the others to what felt like a good central point in the rubble, where there might have been a garden once. But the grasses and flowers, the bushes and trees, had withered like the rest of the city.

“Blessed are you, Auri-El, our father. I pray you can still see us through the eye of Aetherius,” said Kyndoril. “That you can look upon this place and see what has befallen. We have tried to save these people and so many others from a cruel ruler with a hatred for life. And yet his death brought this upon them. May they find rest and peace in your arms.

“I call upon Trinimac. Your judgment upon Mankind was the death knell for us all. May those who have passed here never know the torment of undeath.

“I beseech Stendarr. This thing cannot be undone, but may this remain the extent of it.

“Mara, if you can hear me, may these souls someday find better fortune. And may we know luck, that this tragedy was not all in vain.”

That seemed to be the end of his prayer. Branhucar felt another wave of magicka pass over her, and she looked up at him. “Weird. Was that the gods?”

Kyndoril gave a sad smile. “No.... That was an attempt to consecrate these deceased. A precaution, so necromancers and daedra may not defile them. Normally I would treat them individually. But we would be here for days, and we would still not reach them all.”

“Did... you just consecrate us too somehow? You're not planning on us dying too, are you?”

“You're as funny as your mother.”

“Hey.”

“In a way, that gives me hope.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks, I guess.”

Before they could say anything else, Kyndriel cleared his throat. “I understand now why you wanted to wait. This was the least we could do for them. But, and I don't want rush you... the longer we stay here, the more we risk being found. The Thalmor will descend on Alcaire, not just with justiciars, but with admaneni and revelators-naganwe. Within the day, if they ride from Shornhelm.”

“Of course, you're right,” said Kyndoril. “Forgive me.”

“There's no need for that. If there is anything left, please do it, but then....”

“I've finished the rites. It's time we left.”

They hurried out of the blighted garden and out of the southernmost gate, where anyone coming from the north would hopefully not see. And then, to their immense relief, they saw green in the distance. Only a mile out of the city's walls, there was still life.


	22. The Red Nights

If the destruction had ended so close to Alcaire, then there was hope that the moons could not bleed across the skies forever. And strange as it was to walk through a day of twilight, there was quiet. A calm. And after making peace with how unnatural it was, it was bearable.

Then came the creatures. They had never _seen_ wolves on the road before. Wolves were wise enough to avoid groups of people. But not these, whose eyes gleamed red as they approached, growling and snapping.

Before they could attack, Verandis tapped his staff on the dirt. A long wall of flame rose between them and engulfed the nearest wolf, whose pained screams sent the rest of the pack scattering. But not for long. They returned within seconds, furious and brave. But they couldn't pierce steel. And whatever had come over them, they were still unable to endure blunt force and heavy bleeding.

“Did you see their eyes?” said Kyndriel. “They were cursed!”

“What, by Sheor?” Branhucar asked.

“Lorkhan's shining bollocks!” said Kyndoril. “Animals possessed to battle without regard for pain or fear? This is Nirn, not some... fantastical realm, with the nonsensical encounters of... of a dice game!”

“Huh? Dice games have animal fights?” Branhucar looked at Kyndriel. He shrugged, clearly just as confused as she was.

“Oh, of course none of you could understand,” lamented Kyndoril. “This age of strife has stolen so much from you.”

He began to walk again. Branhucar hurried to keep up; the smell of burning fur was starting to become too much.

“A moment, Kyndoril,” called Verandis.

“Yes?”

“Don't you want to see if these wolves were carrying weapons and gold?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

After several more wolves, an irate wild cat, a bear, and a badger that refused to die, they started to lose track of how much wildlife had come to fling themselves at their faces.

“At this rate the Thalmor won't need magic to track us,” said Kyndriel. “They'll just have to _follow the dead animals_.”

But the farther they walked, the thinner the numbers of aggressive creatures became. Soon they breathed a sigh of relief, as a perfectly normal fox darted across the path in front of them and dove back into the underbrush. And the songs of birds had returned.

The sky remained dark, and it had begun to redden again as they climbed the hills of a mountain pass. Soon, in the distance, they spotted a stone gateway flanked by men in Breton armor... speaking to Dominion soldiers on horseback.

“Oh shit,” whispered Branhucar.

“Don't fret,” said Verandis. “Follow me, and allow me to handle this.”

Thank the gods they had closed helmets. Not Kyndoril, though. Branhucar caught a glimpse of him, to find that his eyes were no longer gold, but blue or perhaps green or maybe gray, and his beard had vanished, but it was a mustache, but his beard was long and braided. How Nocturnal's magic did this, and how it went unnoticed by onlookers, was beyond her.

She focused instead on trailing after Verandis, who approached the gatehouse at a stride that said he was important. That he had every reason to be there, and wasting his time would be a bad idea.

“Who goes there!” said one of the guards, who luckily was not possessed like the animals near Alcaire. “What is your business beyond the Kingsguard Pass?”

Verandis stopped. “I come on behalf of Balfiera.”

The Dominion helmets turned toward him.

“My lords have heard troubling news of late,” said Verandis. “They seek assistance from Daggerfall, and they have sent me.”

A Thalmor justiciar in armor interrupted them. “You can't be talking about the Direnni. High Rock has not had contact with the Direnni in months, and here you stand?”

“It's not my place to question them,” Verandis replied. “But my companions and I have a duty that we must attend. We cannot return to Balfiera empty-handed. The disgrace would be unthinkable.”

The justiciar nodded. “Very well. Go and fulfill your duties, if these Kingsguard will allow it. And do not linger in the night. It isn't safe.”

“You have our thanks.”

The Kingsguard shouted an order up to the gatehouse, and there was a groan of wood and iron as the portcullis rose. Verandis led them onward, his pacing deliberate. Collected. Not at all the walk of a mer attempting to put speedy distance between himself and danger. But there was no relaxing until they heard the gate shut again.

“The Direnni,” scoffed Kyndoril. “Really.”

“Who else?” said Verandis. “House Ravenwatch is old. In my time... when I was still mortal that is... my house was one of many that rallied under their banner.”

“Well, you have your reasons,” said Kyndoril. “But you will know that no mer of Luxurene bows to the Direnni.”

Verandis looked at him. “I thought your house–”

“Oh, hush. It's a matter of principle.”

“They didn't wrong your house by any chance?”

“Not that I'm aware of. If anything ever happened, it would have been long before my mother's time. So long ago that.... Come to think of it, Luxurene was very different before my mother ascended the throne. Still, Luxurene owes no deference to them, unless you're about to tell me something I don't know about the nature of your connection to them.”

“The truth is time has severed these bonds,” said Verandis. “My house played supplicant to kings of Shornhelm and greater High Rock when the Alessian Doctrines took hold. I have the ear of Shornhelm now, but I am no true count. My holdings are pointless to attend when my name carries no weight and there are none in my care. I have done nothing but wander and seek answers to your appearance since you left Crestshade.

“I nearly began to doubt you,” Verandis added. “I knew that your Thalmor blamed you for a tragedy in Northpoint, but the timing should have been impossible. When I heard that you three were roaming in the service of Duke Elouan, it didn't make any sense at all. But the relief I felt when Kyndriel confronted him was immense.”

“It was good to have an ally,” said Kyndoril. “But I could not have imagined how it would end. We're lucky you were there. In fact, we owe you our lives.”

“Please, not this again.”

“What?”

“Kyn tried that earlier,” said Branhucar. “Verandis didn't go for it.”

“We can speak more of it in private,” said Verandis. “But as for the Direnni, despite old loyalties, I fear I may not be welcome among them.”

He stopped walking. There were lights in the distance. Torches and lamps at the end of the pass. They had come to a town.

“Nor here,” said Verandis. “But at least this night's darkness may mask me.”

“I don't know,” said Kyndoril. “You look like you're dressed for a funeral. A bit eye-catching if you ask me. And... it's been at least a day since you've had anything to eat, if I'm not mistaken.”

“What gave it away? My pallor or my eyes?”

Branhucar stole a glimpse of his face. Verandis' eyes had taken on a faint coppery light that was hard to miss in the growing darkness.

“And more importantly,” said Verandis, “are you volunteering? Come. Onward to Crosswych! This time I can provide a feast for three!”

–

Crosswych was either a mining town or a fort, Branhucar imagined. It stretched in front of the pass and its palisades extended north and west, walling off a portion built right into the foot of the mountains. Mining town, she decided, when she saw no sign of soldiers.

The inn stood out immediately, the only building rising beyond two stories. But when Verandis led them inside, it was quiet as a burial hall. The only patrons seemed to be more travelers. A Bosmer in leather armor and a Dunmer in chitin studied a map. An Altmer encouraged a Nord woman to just try and eat something. A tall, muscled Nord with stark white hair seemed engrossed in some card game with a Breton. A Khajiit in a long hooded robe sat in a corner opposite the door, his gaze steady but unfocused.

“More visitors?” said the innkeeper. “Welcome, welcome. We have warm beds and all the food you can eat.”

“Thank you. We could use it,” said Kyndriel. “Business seems slow tonight.”

“Well you must have seen the sky. All four of you will be staying, I take it?”

“We will,” said Verandis. “We need two rooms and food for four.”

“Of course. I'll have your keys ready when you're done eating. The cook will take care of you. Our specialty today is beef stew, and you're welcome to as much as you like.”

Business must have been _very_ slow. The cook loaded a platter of fruit and bread and cheese for them, and true to the innkeeper's word, they were allowed seconds for no extra gold. But without the usual noise of an inn, there less privacy, and it seemed unwise to talk. That was, until Verandis spoke.

“You know, it's rare that I have a chance to sample a meal like this,” he said, giving Kyndoril a slight smile. “This exceeds the usual fare.”

“Honestly, I don't know how you even survived like you did,” Kyndriel said. “Especially when your previous company had such terrible manners.”

“Necessity. Pure necessity.”

Branhucar saw the white-haired Nord give Verandis a suspicious look. There was something odd about his eyes–

Their eyes met. Branhucar sheepishly returned her attention to her food, and did not look back again until she heard the man get up and go to sit in front of the fireplace.

–

The stars stretched over the frost. The skies were aflame with green, masking the moons and their color, even as their soft light covered the earth.

Someone awaited her. The man was a stout one. He carried himself proudly, head high and chest puffed like a bird preparing a song. His hair fell thick around his shoulders, intricately braided, like his beard. And there was a fierceness in his eyes. He was in the prime of his life.

Or he should have been. His body lay at his feet. He had come to a bitter end, torn apart by a hungry bear. The bear was busy cleaning its face. After all, lesser prey would see it too easily against the snow, with a face smeared red.

“What a cruel fate,” she said.

“I welcome this fate,” said the man. “A man could know no better opponent than a great she-bear.”

“You wished to fight her?”

“She didn't give me a choice. But now I have no regrets. I knew that I would die here, but I died as a man. The beast paid in blood.”

“The bear looks like it will live.”

“I've left my mark on its paw. It will not be able to forget it easily.”

The spirit could not be left to stare at his own carcass. It was time for him to be off.

“Your departed friends and ancestors are waiting for you now,” she told him. “I will guide you to the warmth and peace of Aetherius.”

“No.”

“I am sorry, but you have no choice. The dead must not linger in this realm.”

“I have much love for my kin,” said the man. “But my spirit belongs elsewhere. I do not want comfort. I ask you to take me instead to Shor!”

That was... strange.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

“I did not have the chance to fight at his side as my ancestors did. But there are more battles to come, and when they do, I want to be there.”

“You do not understand what you seek. Those who embrace Aetherius may also embrace the next life. There is no such escape from Shor's realm. It is a place of hardship and trial that never ceases.”

“I do not care for comfort. It is hardship that makes us Men.”

It seemed the man would not be dissuaded from his dying wish. “If that is truly what you desire, then it shall be so.”

They turned toward the moons. But the green light of the sky vanished and gave way to red, as holes grew in the surface of the moons, and blood began to flow as water....

Branhucar awoke with a gasp. And she felt Kyndriel stir next to her. She wondered for several seconds if it would be worth it. But then she nudged him awake, and when he rolled to face her, took refuge in his arms.

“What?” he whispered. “Hm. Tell me you're not having nightmares too?”

“Yeah. Evil moons and all.”

“Well. Thanks for waking me, I suppose.” He kissed her forehead. “You are perfectly safe. Off to sleep with you.”

“I'll try if you will.”

“Good.”

She closed her eyes again and willed sleep to come. But images of the moons were waiting in the front of her mind. It was going to be a long night.


	23. Cath Bedraud

Branhucar awoke the next morning in far better spirits. But soon, the memory of their new mission returned and the town's problems became more apparent. The inn wasn't simply devoid of patrons. No one else could be seen when they stepped out into the warm morning light.

“Yes, I sense it too,” said Verandis. “This place is dying.”

“Another word with the innkeeper, I think,” Kyndoril said, heading back inside. In a minute he emerged and shrugged. “He says we should ask the mine's foreman about this.”

Branhucar looked from him to the inn door. “Oh, so he's making us do legwork because he doesn't wanna talk, huh?”

“Ah! You get it!”

The foreman's home was, predictably enough, a modest house situated near the entrance to the mines. Why he was still inside was obvious at a glance; there were no miners to be seen. When the foreman finally reached his door, he eyed the four of them and asked if they were looking for work.

“Not exactly,” said Kyndriel. “We noticed–”

The foreman waved his hand. “Then why are you bothering me?”

“This town is all but abandoned. We want to know why, and word is you're the best person to ask.”

“Fine. But get inside. I don't want my door open to all of _this._” He gestured at the sky.

Verandis smiled, muttered his thanks, and entered first. As soon as they had crossed the threshold, the man shut the door again.

“All of my men disappeared,” said the foreman. “That's a good part of the town, and we weren't that big to begin with. Hardly anyone left but widows and kids, and they've started leaving.”

“Did something happen in the mines?” Kyndriel asked.

“No. Something happened out of them. Someone came here two years ago looking for miners. And just like that, they were gone.”

“You can't really mean all at once?”

“Well, no. They promised my men riches. When the first bunch started sending letters and gold home, the rest decided to follow them. Haven't heard a word from them in months. And of course the gold dried up too.”

“And... where exactly did they vanish to?”

“Hammerfell, they said. The dirt around Dragonstar is supposed to be rich with ore.”

Memories of a teary-eyed Ren'dar surfaced. Branhucar held back a sigh and looked at Kyndriel. She already knew what they'd found, and Kyndriel's grimace told her that he was thinking the same thing.

“I don't suppose any of them described this new mine,” he said to the foreman. “Or what they found there.”

“Not a word to me, but I heard them talking about diamonds. Magic red diamonds worth a fortune.”

Branhucar tried to ignore the weight in her stomach. And the creeping anger. “Please tell me you're joking.”

“Too good to be true, right?” said the foreman. “I told them as much.”

“Interesting,” said Kyndriel. “And who exactly recruited your men?”

“Only said they were with some Dragonstar company.”

“Doubt it.”

“You and everyone else left in this hole.”

“Well, that's that then. Thanks for the information. We'll be off.”

“Wait a minute,” said the foreman. “You know something about this.”

Kyndriel looked at him. “Little more than you, but I will tell you this. What they were hired to dig for is vile and dangerous. Do not trust anyone else who makes that offer.” He paused. “No matter who that offer comes from.”

“As if I haven't figured that out.”

They left the foreman with that cryptic warning, only to be greeted by a new one. A harsh wind blew in from the west, ahead of rippling circles of dark clouds.

“Oh by Xarxes' endless tomes,” said Kyndriel. “What fresh bullshit is this?”

“Cath Bedraud,” Verandis said.

Branhucar waited for her heart to slow down. She'd forgotten he'd been right there.

“Cath Bedraud?” Kyndriel repeated.

“Cath Bedraud lies in that direction. It's an ancient tomb,” Verandis explained, seeing the confusion on their faces. “High Rock's kings have been buried there for thousands of years.”

“And... what makes you so sure it's Cath Bedraud?” Kyndriel asked him.

“It fits a pattern I found in Rivenspire. And I can think of no other place immediately west where someone might enact a foul ritual that would signal itself in the sky. Unless of course the good people of Glenumbra have been busy building new holy sites to curse between here and there.”

“You've given them plenty of time for that.”

“So I have!”

“But how far is Cath Bedraud?”

“A day, at worst. For the three of you. I could be there within hours if I so desired.”

“Then why are you still standing around here?”

“Absolutely abysmal flying conditions,” said Verandis. A stronger gust struck as if to make his point. He raised his voice to be heard above the wind. “And besides, it wouldn't be fair to you, now, would it!”

Branhucar looked back at Kyndoril. He was massaging his forehead again.

“You all right there?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Do you need something?” asked Verandis.

Kyndoril muttered something she didn't hear, but Verandis scoffed.

“You need what? Do you have any idea what will happen when that hits _me_?”

Kyndriel frowned at them. “Father? You're really starting to worry me.”

“Oh, fine,” said Kyndoril. “If only I'd dabbled more in alchemy. I might have something to soothe this. Or not. All things considered.”

“It's Lorkhan again, isn't it,” asked Verandis.

“Perhaps. Let's go and put a stop to this.”

–

The distinct shine of steel armor dropped a cold brick of iron into Branhucar's guts. There were knights at Cath Bedraud. Somehow, Breton knights had beaten them to the crypt. Or were even responsible for the curse emanating from the ruins.

“Bran? Are you all right?”

Branhucar looked at Kyndriel and realized that the deep, unholy, daedric growl she'd been hearing had somehow come from her own mouth. She cleared her throat.

“Peace, friend,” whispered Verandis. “I know you don't trust them after Alcaire, but these are no knights of Elouan's.”

Their colors  _ were _ yellow, not the blue in her memory. And one of the many knights who had spotted their approach urged his horse toward them. The horse kept tossing its head as it walked.

Had they heard her? Did the horse sense her lycanthropy?

“This is no place for wanderers!” said the knight, and Branhucar let out a held breath. “You should leave before the evil here finds you.”

“We're investigating that evil,” said Verandis. “You're from Camlorn, aren't you? What's happened here?”

The knight stared at him for a moment, and Branhucar wondered if he could sense Verandis' curse or if he just didn't trust them. But the knight relented.

“The dead have risen. This place is crawling with them and all of them fight as if possessed by Ebonarm himself!”

Branhucar would have asked who Ebonarm was, but wasn't the time. The knight's meaning was obvious enough.

“We've seen our share of risen dead,” said Kyndriel. “Tell us where we can find the source of this curse and by the light of Auri-El we shall scour it from this place.”

“Oh Arkay's beard, we don't need a Thalmor inquisition.”

“Well you're getting one, human! No, of course I'm joking,” Kyndriel said as the knight steadied himself in his saddle. “As if the light of Auri-El can even pierce this tainted sky!”

The knight stammered something that Branhucar couldn't catch.

“Oh, pull yourself together,” said Kyndriel. “What do you know? Come on. Keep talking.”

“You should talk to my commander instead. Come on, she'll tell you everything we know.”

The knight of Camlorn turned his horse and led them up the hill. As they walked, they passed between low stone walls and towering statues of faceless, cloaked figures resting the points of greatswords against the earth. The image of Talos, a whole country away, came to mind. But these were older, more weathered. And she had never seen Talos guard the dead.

“What are these?” Branhucar whispered. “Why are there so many?”

“Guardians, perhaps,” said Kyndoril. “Summerset depicts Trinimac very much in this manner if memory hasn't failed me.”

“It hasn't,” whispered Kyndriel. “I remember the great temple of Skywatch well.”

“Well none of them are really Arkay,” said Verandis. “But yes. They are guardians, if you consider a lifeless stone statue a guardian of anything.”

“You of all of us should not blaspheme here.”

“You haven't heard blasphemy yet, child.”

“Oh be nice, both of you,” said Kyndoril.

As they walked, they passed groups of knights examining corpses. Most of the bodies appeared in shambles, reduced to the barest remains of muscles and a skeleton. Some were burning. Others, the knights sprinkled with droplets of water from a silver chalice. Her skin itched thinking about it and she tried to focus on whatever was ahead.

They arrived at a small encampment marked by yellow banners, some winged creature emblazoned in purple in the center. It might have been a dragon, if it only had two legs. She pointed this out to Kyndriel. He shrugged and whispered that it didn't quite capture the image of a gryphon either.

More importantly, there was Dame Enora. And there was something inspiring about the seriousness of her gaze, the weathered lines of her brow, the edge in her voice as she addressed the knights....

Branhucar reminded herself that she was married to a mer who had been through Oblivion and back with her many times over, they were there for reasons that were actually important, and besides, she didn't even know the dame.

“We saw these clouds yesterday and diverted from our patrol,” said Dame Enora. “You're lucky you didn't come here earlier. The dead might have overwhelmed you.”

“Who were they?” Kyndriel asked.

“The dead? Our forebears. Old servants of the kings buried deeper in the catacombs. They knew how to fight in life, and whatever's inside is giving them strength they never had before. Their eyes and bones burn with unholy fire.”

“So I'm guessing you haven't made it in yet.”

“We tried,” said Enora. “But the doors are sealed against us. Our enemy is probably waiting for the dead to overpower us. Once we get inside, though, he'll realize his mistake....”

“Are you digging, then? Or are you... resorting to more destructive methods?”

“We don't have much choice. If we don't put a stop to this, we'll have more to worry about than a few missing bricks.”

“Well, magic seals aren't a problem for us,” said Kyndriel. “Father, you heard everything?”

“Where exactly is this sealed door?” asked Kyndoril.

“What are you planning, elf?” asked the dame.

Kyndoril's brow twitched. “I'm going to break into your holy grounds, seduce a horde of daedra, and hold an orgy in the sight of your kings.”

“You know what, I don't care,” said Enora. “The door's in the dead center of the graveyard. Big, fancy, and covered in cursed vines. Give us a shout if you manage to get in. You're not going in without backup.”

–

It reminded Branhucar of an Ayleid ruin. Kyndoril examined the sliding stone doors, then made the slightest gesture. A brief flash illuminated the stone as the magical locks broke. As the door slid open and a thin red mist wafted out, she heard movement behind them. A handful of Enora's knights looked prepared to follow them, just as she'd promised.

“I don't think you want to join us,” said Kyndoril. “I expect far worse than risen dead.”

“If this is the best our enemy can throw at us, we can handle him,” said one of the knights.

“We've done this kind of thing before,” Branhucar told them. “There's always something a lot worse at the end.”

“What do you take us for?”

There was no point in arguing. The knights of Camlorn accompanied them into the catacombs of Cath Bedraud. And as what light they had from the sky faded, Kyndoril cast a new one to guide them. But it wasn't enough to silence the alarm in her mind. The mist that hung in the air had a faint glow of its own that couldn't quite pierce the darkness ahead of them.

And then there were more of the vines. They snaked up the walls, wrapped around statues and coffins, broke through the floors and ceiling. The things were the size of small tree trunks and had thorns like daggers. And they... wiggled. With menace.

“What in Oblivion are these things?” Branhucar asked.

“Foul magic,” said one of the knights. “This place was defiled long ago by the Reachmen.”

“Wait, what? And... how long ago?”

“Their contempt for the gods and kings knows no bounds.”

“Huh. I see....”

Kyndriel's voice rose from somewhere ahead. “We've got bodies.”

His aptly timed discovery pulled the knights' attention away from her and the vines. She walked closer to see what they were gathered around and braced her nerves and stomach. It was, to her horror, much like what they'd seen in Alcaire. The body had shriveled, leaving armor and livery that had fit a stouter man.

“Alcaire,” said one of the knights. “What brought them here?”

Kyndriel glanced at them, and Branhucar knew that he was searching for the right words to explain. Then he shook his head. “Let's move on and see what ended them. Keep your guard up. They may be husks but they're still easy tools for our necromancer.”

“If anyone remains at all,” muttered Verandis, and Kyndoril leaned closer. “I only count a few living in this place and they're all here in this room.”

“Perhaps,” Kyndoril replied. “But I don't think we're alone. I sense magicka. A presence. Something waits further on.”

“What is it?” asked a knight.

Kyndoril rolled his eyes. “It's too early to say. But I've not felt such a presence in years. And I warn you, it is more dangerous than either of us know.”

“Then let's find it and be done with this,” said the knight.

As if they needed that push. Branhucar hurried to catch up with Kyndriel and nudged him.

“Any idea what it is?” she asked. “You're the expert on tracking _this_ sort of thing down, aren't you?”

“My guess is as good as my father's,” he admitted. “My formal training only covered theory. But if we're dealing with someone dead, who knows how to raise the dead, that does narrow down the _kind_ of suspect. Do you remember the dragon priests?”

“I wish I didn't.”

“Yes. But do you remember the one who made... extra preparations for his death? The first one we tracked down after our little change of plans in the mountains?”

“The one who only bothered getting up because you put your butt on his throne. That guy.”

“He had ambitions of becoming a lich. Think Mannimarco. The one who drove my grandmother to grief. Through necromancy, he was able to regain use of his body when he died. Twice, even. He was killed at the end of the Third Era, but of course I had to attend a month of lectures about recognizing his....” The Dragonborn raised his hands and wiggled his fingers, “Wormy Order.”

Branhucar snorted, then cringed as the sound echoed around them. “Seriously?”

“No, most people remember it as the Worm Cult. But... this doesn't strike me as Mannimarco's work. For many reasons. For starters his style was more... bones and soul gems everywhere.”

“You don't think the Lions had a lich on their side,” Branhucar whispered. “Do you? Because that makes this worse.”

“I'll be surprised if it isn't. Can't think of anything else that fits the description. But whatever it is... well, we're seeing the same evidence, aren't we?”

Just when she thought the catacombs would go on forever, she caught the sound of cursing. Very mundane cursing. But it was accompanied by a burst of light. As Kyndriel stopped, the voice echoed again: “Damn you! Why won't you rise!”

“And there's our necromancer,” Kyndriel whispered. “Sounds like he's not having much luck in there.”

“Then we've got him cornered,” said Branhucar.

“Not so hasty. The draugr were one thing, but if he's unliving and he's still got his faculties, then–”

The knights of Camlorn drew their blades and rushed past them. Their armor clanked and rattled into the distance.

“Yes, let's just let the lich know we're coming in,” said Kyndriel, walking after them. “Wonderful idea.”

“Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll use all his magic up on them before we get there.” Branhucar felt eyes on her. “What?”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Kyndoril said. “Not that I disagree. But if he gains the upper-hand against our knight friends....”

They hurried, and entered a spacious stone chamber. A man in dark robes stood tall in the center, while the knights struggled on the ground. One who'd managed to rise and charge at him stopped short and collapsed. The necromancer looked up.

He looked normal, but there was something wrong, something uncanny about the way he carried himself. He wasn't deathly pale. His eyes weren't lit with hunger. And he didn't have the same... presence as Verandis. But he should not have _been_.

It was time for the nail bat. She called it easily from the Void and tested its weight, while the lich sized them up.

“You think you can face me?” he said. “Idiots! These spirits are unruly, but I don't need _them_ to deal with you.”

One of the prone knights, who had not moved since they'd spotted him, groaned and rose from the ground. His shoulders and limbs jerked. His head rolled on his shoulders. The corpse ignored the panic of his old comrades. Branhucar readied her nail bat as the thing ran at her.

Then she recoiled as a great fireball struck the undead knight squarely in the chest. The corpse turned its attention to Verandis, and Branhucar took the opportunity to swing. Plate bent and cracked, and the corpse had to right itself, but could not withstand the sudden light that washed over it. It collapsed.

“I remember you!” said the necromancer. “But you won't escape me like you escaped Alcaire!”

“FUS RO DAH!”

The necromancer hit the far wall, but as Kyndriel ran forward, he rose with a surprising swiftness, heedless of the impact. Or his arm that stuck at an odd angle. A strange motion and it was back in its place. And he repelled the swing of Kyndriel's shield, then the point of his blade with a cold blue ward.

Branhucar charged. The necromancer's reserves of strength would have to wane soon, and when they did, that shield would drop like a brick. But then a shadow gripped her. And she felt her magicka leave her, and not return. Her conjured nail bat vanished from her hands.

She drew her sword instead and made a desperate, overhead strike against the ward as her strength began to follow her magicka. And she switched her attentions to trying to banish whatever drained her of her magic. It clung like a leech. Her vision blurred.

And then it ended. Magicka rushed back, and the necromancer's shield was gone. In a panic, the lich raised his hands, and the stench of rotting meat filled the room. Branhucar heard a hideous roar and turned her head as a giant, one made of flesh, emerged from a tear in the Void. It raised an arm that ended in a cage of iron spikes and made for Kyndoril.

But the necromancer yelled. Steel pierced through his chest and out of his back.

“You are _not_ distracting me with that,” Kyndriel snarled. “Go to Oblivion and take that _thing_ back with you.”

The necromancer gripped the sword by the blade. “You're going to have to do better than that, you filthy–”

Branhucar hit him with her nail bat. And lich or not, he couldn't do much living, even unliving, with his skull bashed in. Kyndriel stepped away, then eyed his sword with disgust. The flesh abomination vanished and to Branhucar's nausea, the smell didn't go with it. It had left bits of itself behind.

But the lich's soul was stubborn. He appeared where his summoned creature had faded and spoke with a frightening glee.

“You think you've won, do you? Wretched Aldmeri! I am only a mere servant of Sheor!”

“You're– What?”

Kyndriel didn't have time to say more. The room erupted with red light again.


	24. Blood of the Gods

She awoke to two things: Kyndriel's hand on her shoulder, and someone else in the room sobbing.

“The Bad Man. The Bad Man is coming. The Bad Man!”

Other voices hushed him. Branhucar sat up to see one of the knights on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, surrounded by his comrades.

“Well,” whispered Kyndriel. “This isn't _actually_ what I imagined when I took my oath. Come on, Bran. The others are already searching for answers.”

“What's all this about the Bad Man,” Branhucar groaned, taking off her helm to rub her head.

“I'd like to know that too,” said Kyndriel. “Hold on....”

His hand glowed for a moment, and the pain in her skull faded away.

“Careful,” he added. “Our lich made a mess of this place.”

Books and torn pages, broken vials and shards of glass, discarded weapons, and rubble were strewn across the floor. Small fires burned, and Branhucar realized with a jolt that it was what remained of the flesh creature.

“What was that _thing_?” she asked.

“A flesh atronach.”

“What? I thought it was all... fire and ice and....”

“They're a favorite construct of necromancers,” said Kyndriel. “Massive, overwhelming, and... an efficient use of remains.”

“So... why's it on fire?”

“Our priest thought it was a good idea.”

Kyndoril looked up where he'd been hunched over a closed sarcophagus, then beckoned them closer. Then he pointed one finger at a spot on a roughly drawn map.

“As I suspected,” he said. “Look at this. See what Crosswych has in common with the people of Waridge.”

A tiny flame had been drawn near the towns. Wind Keep and Black Wastes were marked too, along with handful of other towns she'd never heard of. But no such symbol marked Norvulk, or Wayrest.

“These were all his,” Branhucar said. “Or... places that were loyal to him, anyway.”

“And still are, I would imagine,” said Kyndoril.

“Well it's not surprising,” said Kyndriel. “Everywhere we went, it was obvious he had influence. No wonder he acted like some self-appointed king. And... what's this....” He pointed to a marker west of Crosswych. “We're in Cath Bedraud, right here. What does this red circle mean? There are more of them....”

There were two that stood out. One directly to the south, by the Iliac Bay. Another to the south and west, surrounded by little drawings of mountains, just north of a village labeled Aldcroft. Further to the south, the Daenia Woods, and by the Eltheric Ocean, Daggerfall.

“Where did you find this?” Kyndriel asked.

“Over in that little corner,” said his father. “Don't ask me how our lich got a whole office down here.”

“He could have summoned it,” said Branhucar, eyeing the desk and overflowing bookshelf.

“I think Verandis would like your assistance.”

Branhucar gave the map one more glance before going to join the others.

“Most of it's simple Tamrielic,” Verandis muttered. “The rest.... It's no form of elvish, or anything I'm familiar with.”

Kyndriel stared over his shoulder, and his eyes narrowed. “That's... ancient Nedic! Let me see that!”

“You can read Nedic?”

“I _will_ read it. Just give me a minute....” The Dragonborn flipped through a few of the pages. “This isn't anything like the transcriptions from Hammerfell. There's... also a lot of elvish in early Nedic runes here. See, this part looks like Nedic, but this is really about trees, no, a forest if you think about the context....”

Verandis watched silently.

“So... got anything?” Branhucar asked.

“It... it looks like the lich was coding his plans in a western variant of early Nedic that borrows heavily from early Aldmeris. A... a proto-Bretic language, predating Common Tamrielic.... This is.... By the gods, this would explain why the Atmorans thought the early Bretons spoke broken Nedic.”

“Uh.... Anything about the lich and what those plans were?”

“Ugh. Right. The lich. The first entries... refer to a guiding light. The light, he says, will bring the return of the true gods of man. I think the light is supposed to be Elouan.”

At his words, there was a scandalized outburst. Kyndriel glared at the knights of Camlorn, then returned to his translation.

“The lich writes that the Empire is weak... because the gods of the Empire are weakened by the elven taint,” he frowned. “Real disciple of Marukh, this one. He goes on to say that Talos himself is not a god, but a man borrowing the power of Sheor. And he says that the Empire has betrayed Sheor by abandoning Talos. Wait, what?”

“Don't try to reason it out,” said Kyndoril. “Such men contradict themselves when it suits them.”

“Fair enough. He also says that... Sheor's price for this treachery... is to 'take what is his. He will take back his earth in blood and fire. The blood of elves will....' Oh, now he's just being disgusting. What else is there....

“'Sheor is dead and he works through Men, but this age I sense nothing,” Kyndriel read. “'The Dragonborn lives again, but he is false. In my dreams, I see Sheor's flame burning across Skyrim, subduing the Aldmeri, bringing death to the dragons. An army rises in its wake. But not the elf.'

“'Ulfric Stormcloak is dead and a woman has stolen his throne.'”

“Gods be praised!” Kyndoril whispered.

“Ulfric? That bastard? That Ulfric Stormcloak?” Branhucar asked.

“Who else?” Kyndriel said. “Are you two going to let me read or not?”

“Kyn! He ruined my home! He hurt your dad!”

Kyndriel flushed. “Oh. Right. Of course I would gladly spit on his grave with you, but....” He gestured helplessly at the lich's journal.

“We'll celebrate later,” said Kyndoril. “Go on.”

Kyndriel searched for his place on the page again. “'... and a woman has stolen his throne. Sheor is growing weaker. He must be fed. The blood of elves will not sustain him long.' Okay, he's being vile again. Nothing we don't know about here....

“'We have his blood, his essence. But we have no body. The guiding light will awaken Sheor, and he must become the vessel. But he is a coward. We must continue to feed Sheor and strengthen his power to prepare him for his ascension.

“'Curse the Dragonborn! The vessel is broken, but Sheor will have his feast. His spirit is free and the moons herald his victory over the weak gods of the Aldmeri. But it cannot be until none remain to oppose him. His army will rise beneath the waxing moons, sustained by his blood as their blood sustains him, and subdue the Aldmeri as was foretold. Every elf and elf-spawned dog will know fear of the gods again.'

“'The Dragonborn comes, bringing death. This will not end me. Sheor's loyal protect Dwynnarth and march for Glenumbra Moors.'”

Kyndriel looked up, then frowned. “And what are you all looking at?”

One of the knights of Camlorn spoke. “You mentioned Duke Elouan of Alcaire. Are you really saying this abomination served him?”

“I'm starting to wonder if it wasn't the opposite. Look. I don't care what you want to believe. We've seen his betrayal of High Rock, we've watched him die and take Alcaire with him. Now we have this lich professing his crimes. Would you deny it?”

“We... must bring the news to the dame. You ought to join us.”

“Well, there's only one way out of this tomb,” said Kyndoril. “I think we all agree. The dame must hear of this. And so should Camlorn.”

Branhucar shrugged, and heard Kyndriel mutter something in resignation. But Verandis was silent. In fact, as she glanced around, he was nowhere to be seen.

–

By the time they made it outside, the clouds above Cath Bedraud had vanished, leaving a clear view of the sky. But, just like the lich had written, it hadn't ended with his death. Blue was still stained red and purple. The moons were still too bright. And they seemed larger than before.

Dame Enora, contrary to Branhucar's fears, believed them. But a minute was spent waiting for her to vent her outrage over the betrayals in Stormhaven. Branhucar caught little of it, between her distraction over the moons and Verandis' disappearance.

“It doesn't matter,” said Enora, finally. “We need to worry about Glenumbra. You said he was raising an army of the dead with... blood?”

“With Nirncrux,” said Kyndriel. “It looks like red metal but it's Lor... _Sheor's_ blood. Your knights told me the dead here fought as if possessed by Ebonarm. The animals we met on the road near Alcaire were the same. Their eyes were bright red and they didn't stop trying to kill us until they were dead.”

“Just like our risen dead, then. And you said that this lich was moving armies to Glenumbra Moors.”

“That's what it looks like.”

“Then I need to return to Camlorn and raise the alarm. I can't ask you to follow me.”

“Wait a minute,” said Kyndriel. “What of Glenumbra Moors? If we make haste we can put a stop to this before Camlorn and the rest of Glenumbra are threatened.”

“We've already lost too much here,” Enora told them. “Riding there now would doom us all and Camlorn would have no warning. Do what you will, but go with caution. You must have noticed the Thalmor as you crossed the pass.”

“Of course,” Kyndriel's voice fell. “They're in Glenumbra, aren't they....”

“High Rock may be loyal to the Empire, but the Dominion holds great influence here. The Thalmor are hunting for you.”

“I expected nothing less,” said Kyndriel. “But thank you.”

As the knights hurried to break camp, they stood aside to consider their own course of action.

“The sooner we get to Glenumbra Moors, the better,” Kyndriel muttered. “All the better if we head off the cult on the road. If we only had horses....”

“I can arrange the horses,” said Kyndoril.

“Father, no.”

“Necromancers are descending on Glenumbra Moors as we speak and you're being timid about the acquisition of horses.”

Verandis chose then to appear behind them. “If only the wayshrines remained.”

“Then our necromancers would have that advantage,” said Kyndoril. “And where have you been?”

“Around. Now, how will Camlorn respond to this crisis?”

As Kyndriel explained what the dame had told them, Verandis nodded. “I see. I don't like this either, but her judgment is sound. Cath Bedraud would be insignificant in comparison to Glenumbra Moors.”

“What do you mean?” Branhucar asked. “What do they want with it?”

“Well, I'll try to be brief,” said Verandis. “It was the site of a fierce battle in the First Era. High Rock, under the Direnni, made a desperate last stand against the Empire of old. They succeeded, but there were terrible losses. You can imagine what a necromancer would see in such a place.”

“Tons of dead people just waiting for a chance to stab people again?”

“Well. Yes and no. Our lich wouldn't have been concerned with the wishes of the dead. And it's hard to say whether one could even summon the army that he speaks of, when they died so long ago.”

“So if they died a long time ago, a necromancer couldn't really use them?”

“It's not impossible,” said Verandis. “But the longer a soul is detached from its body, the more likely it is to depart the mortal world. And at that point, the corpse is useless. Well, unless you can bind another soul to it. Which is inadvisable.”

“Necromancy itself is inadvisable,” said Kyndriel.

“Of course,” said Verandis, “but some forms are worse than others. And putting a soul in the wrong body causes it distress.”

“You speak as if you're familiar with all of this.”

“And you're familiar with Lorkhan. We must know our enemies, mustn't we?”

“Fair enough.”

“So... you _need_ a soul,” said Branhucar. “I thought necromancers could just... raise bodies.”

“That is the end result of most necromancy,” said Verandis, “as people usually know it. But no. Necromancy is the manipulation of the soul. It just so happens that manipulating a soul usually requires someone to have died.”

“Usually?” said Branhucar. The idea of a lich grabbing onto her soul while she was still _using it...._ “Usually?!”

“Hence the naming of the art,” said Verandis, as if this were not horrifying. “Our lich seemed confident that he could make use of the old battlefield. Given everything else this cult has done, I think we should trust him to make good on his threat. Which is why we should make haste. And, speak of the daedra, Kyndoril's back.”

“What?” Kyndriel yelped, looking over his shoulder. “He _left_?”

Kyndoril rounded the hill with a group of stout war horses. As Branhucar wondered how she was supposed to mount one of them – gods the stirrups were high – Kyndriel approached his father. Before he could say a word, Kyndoril handed him the reins of one of the horses. The Dragonborn was immediately overcome by the urge to pet its nose.

“Dame Enora mentioned that there were steeds whose riders perished here,” said Kyndoril. “These are but a few of the poor creatures.”

“The poor beasts,” said Kyndriel. “But, this is generous of her.”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“I mean let's be off with no more delays.”


	25. The Necromancer

The Lions' new threat and the odds that Kyndoril's horse theft would not go unnoticed drove them south. Night and day, the moons loomed over them. They had not waned since that night in Alcaire. And every passing day, though Branhucar couldn't be sure if her eyes were right or her mind was playing tricks, they seemed a little brighter, a little larger.

What would be done about the moons, she wondered, when all of Elouan's men were dead and there was nobody left to feed Sheor? The lich's words lurked in the back of her thoughts. What were men to the moons? Or to a waking god?

The moons were there as they slept and as they woke. And every moment in between was cursed. She came to dread closing her eyes – visions of death, corpses strewn across the wasteland, of a cold grave of stars haunted her. Sometimes she was flying instead. But then, her flight would turn to the moons and stars again.

One evening, as the sky began to redden again, she voiced her woes.

“I can't sleep. It's not safe.”

Verandis gave her a pitying look. “I keep vigil every night. None of you will come to harm while I am here.”

It was kind, but what could he know?

“You can eat normal food. Do you ever sleep?” Branhucar asked.

“I try to, when time presents itself. Now it seems better that I take advantage of my abilities.”

“That's for the best,” said Kyndriel. “I envy you.”

Verandis raised his eyebrows, but said nothing else.

“I'll try to ward our camp tonight,” said Kyndoril. “May Lady Mara watch over us all.”

Sleep came quickly, and the nightmares never began. Instead, it was a world of impenetrable darkness, safe yet cold, and she was too aware of it and just how slowly time passed. When she awoke, the colors of the world and the touch of grass felt strange and new.

“So was anyone else floating in the Void itself last night?” asked Kyndriel. “Or was that just me?”

Kyndoril muttered something in Altmeris. Verandis patted him on the shoulder.

On they rode, until the soil grew softer and the trees, tall though they were, lacked any leaves. Mist covered the ground and soon filled the air, blocking out everything ahead, swallowing the mountains.

Kyndoril reined his horse to a halt and reached down to pat it. “We're getting close.”

“How can you tell?” asked Branhucar.

“I can sense it close by. A mile to the west. I feel Lorkhan's hunger, and the sorrow of the dead. And... Wenaya the Second is growing restless,” he added, as the horse began to edge to one side. “Aren't you, Wenaya?”

Branhucar looked down. Her horse stood stiff, ears forward. “So... what happens now?”

“We strike as soon as we're able,” said Kyndriel.

“No,” said Kyndoril. “That... might be unwise.”

“We didn't come here to cower.”

“Son, you fight well. But the lich spoke of an army and I fear we're outmatched. I have not come all this way to lose my children so rashly.”

“Then we let them run rampant?”

“Let me go,” said Verandis. “I will learn more of them and return once I'm able.”

Kyndriel nodded. “If you can. Don't get caught.”

“You don't need to fear for me. Keep moving, but keep your distance from their encampment. I will find you later.”

Verandis dismounted and walked a few paces from his horse. In another instant, he had vanished again, leaving no trace but a magical aura that sped off ahead of them.

At first, Branhucar wondered what they'd do with the fourth horse. But it was content to follow the backsides of the other horses through the fog, with or without a vampire in the saddle. Or, so it was until the horses as a group refused to go any further. Kyndriel's began to lean back on its hind hooves.

“Dismount, now,” said Kyndoril, as he slid out of his own saddle and slowly approached Kyndriel's mount with a soft green light in his hands. “Branhucar, stay where it can see you. A hoof to the skull is beyond healing.”

Once their feet were back on the ground and they had given the horses some space, the poor things, realizing they no longer needed to be there, turned and fled.

Branhucar watched them disappear into the fog. “What could scare a horse this much?”

“Honestly? A tree branch,” said Kyndoril. “Horses are simple. Fragile. They know their mortality well.”

“But war horses? I thought war horses were supposed to be good with scary things.”

“Oh, you've been lied to,” said Kyndriel.

Kyndoril nodded. “Even if it were true, I have my own share of experience with the undead and daedra, yet I wish to follow the horses.”

Branhucar understood, suddenly, the strange, overpowering urge to run. But her legs didn't seem willing. Something was near. She turned and saw a glowing, spectral form in the fog. A figure in ghostly armor, carrying a rusty shield and sword.

“We have no quarrel with you,” said Kyndriel.

The ghost ignored his words and attacked. Kyndriel met it, and Branhucar saw the ghost's blade meet his shield with surprising force. The ghost, however, did not have a body that recoiled from the impact.

The ghost wouldn't notice lightning if distracted. She imagined the same sparks that she called to her weapons, gathered them to her hands....

A burst of golden light washed over the ghost and it faded, cursing its defeat. Its weapons fell to the ground.

She was still holding lightning. Without any other ideas, she aimed for a nearby rock and flinched as the bolt cracked through the air.

Kyndriel tapped the dropped shield with his boot. “Would you look at that. I've never seen anything quite like this.”

Branhucar moved closer and looked at the shield. Rusty though it was, it was obviously steel. Yet – she reached down and carefully picked it up – it was much lighter than she expected. The feathers etched into the metal caught her eye last.

“Well, it's elven,” she said.

“So is the sword,” Kyndriel pointed out. “See how the blade is shaped.”

She picked that up too, and after looking over it, their appeal became apparent. “There's magicka here. It's in the ground... and all over these.”

“More than I expected from a haunted ground,” said Kyndoril.

“Should we really keep those?” asked Kyndriel.

“Well if we put them down, another ghost is just going to grab them,” said Branhucar.

They walked on, unsure of where to stop, or when. And as they passed through Glenumbra Moors, more ghosts emerged from the mist. Some must have been Bretons. Others were alarmingly tall in comparison. All wore armor of the same fashion and gave the same warning seconds before attacking. And none of them were able to resist Kyndoril's magic.

“Their anger is great,” he said. “But these are ordinary ghosts, and they are not beyond the light of Aetherius.”

Eventually, daylight started to fade, and the fog with it. Kyndoril let out a tired breath, and Branhucar realized that some of the magicka she'd sensed had been him, keeping a watch over their surroundings in the best way he knew. They didn't need it any longer when the Lions, more distant now, had marked their presence with fires. Plumes of smoke stood out against the reddening skies.

“I see shelter ahead,” said Kyndriel. “A barrow. Let's take a rest and wait for Verandis.”

The hill rose ahead of them, and they found the doorway cut into the side and followed the stone steps down into the tomb. It was thankfully free of the undead.

–

A brazier near an altar made a good source of warmth and light. Their rations were enough to last a bit longer. It might have been easy to relax there, if not for the knowledge that Elouan's men lurked nearby, and that Verandis was still absent.

Verandis answered their worries by appearing out of thin air and scaring them half to death. The relief that followed was short-lived; Verandis' copper eyes were grim.

“There are dozens of swordsmen in the colors of Alcaire, and many more who look like simple farmers and tradesmen,” he told them. “There were at least sixteen necromancers among them. A few priests. They have relics – hourglasses, engravings of diamonds. They mean to raise our old friends, the Alessians.”

“Then we stop them before they can raise the dead,” said Kyndriel.

“Can you face a hundred men?” asked Verandis. “Even you, Dragonborn? And that wasn't the end of it. I found raw Nirncrux. A lot of Nirncrux. It seems that what the knights of Camlorn dealt with was only the beginning.”

“An army driven by Sheor's blood.... Of course. Then we shouldn't delay.”

Kyndoril shook his head. “No. This... this is beyond us now. You remember what happened in Northpoint. If we're exposed to it, we'll be slaughtered.”

“What about Camlorn?” Branhucar asked. “Camlorn knows by now what's going on. We could find them, get help.”

“Camlorn is days from here!” said Kyndriel. “If we just leave, nobody will be here to stop them.”

“I... don't suppose Verandis could just turn us all into vampires,” said Branhucar, while her wolf barked in protest in the back of her mind. “So the Nirncrux wouldn't be an issue.”

“No,” said Verandis. “The change is more terrible than I wish to inflict upon any of you. And the last thing I need is a trio of fledgling vampires with no grasp of their power following me into battle. If I could even turn all of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your connection to your wolf would make the task exceedingly difficult. And I haven't forgotten what happened when I tried to feed on your husband in Coldharbour.”

Branhucar leaned against the wall, then looked at the sword and shield she'd gathered earlier.

“No... perhaps there is merit in Camlorn after all,” said Kyndriel. “A tactical retreat might be our only choice.”

She focused her thoughts again. The ghosts had been easy to fight off, with Kyndoril's magic. But if there had been many, if they had not had a priest who knew how to fend off the undead, the ghosts would have been a force to reckon with. And, if the Lions planned to raise them and infuse them with Nirncrux, maybe they were.

“What if... we had our own army?” she asked.

“Wouldn't that be convenient,” said Kyndriel.

“Hold on,” Kyndoril frowned at her. “Where are you going with this?”

She picked up the sword and shield again. “Well.... We've been attacked by ghosts all day. It's the dead Alessians that the Lions want, right? What if we could get help from the rest of them, somehow?”

“I suppose... if we could appeal to the roaming spirits of this place....”

“Yeah. But we don't have time to go find more ghosts.”

Kyndoril watched as she set the rusted arms down near the brazier.

“Might I ask what you're doing with those?”

“Elouan's men are going to summon the dead,” said Branhucar. “If they're going to do that, we should get ahead of them. Figure out how to stop this.”

“You would stoop to necromancy.”

Branhucar hated the calm in his voice. The disappointment. What other choice did they have? “You call it necromancy. I call it asking the dead really, really nice to please give us a hand.”

“Do you want the lecture now or later?”

Branhucar ignored him and focused on the relics. A sword. A shield. Pretty normal. But the traces of magicka remaining were tangible enough to work with.

“Please be a nice ghost,” she muttered. “Okay. Um. Spirit? We need a word. Hate to pull you out of Aetherius but we're really in a bind....”

Her magicka could reach beyond the mortal world, find the match of the relics in the next one. Magicka could serve as a guide, as a door....

A portal opened above the rusted shield. And the image of a tall, armored warrior blinked into the catacombs.

“Oh gods,” said Branhucar, as Verandis rushed to her side. “I did the thing.”

The ghost stared down at her. “You? How dare you!”

“Stars above!” yelped Verandis. “Sire!”

“Sire?” Branhucar repeated.

She glanced at Verandis in time to see one knee hit the floor. Verandis looked her in the eye, then jerked his head down, and she realized that she ought to copy him. She did so and hoped that the ghost would be appeased. He wasn't.

“What is the meaning of this?” the ghost demanded.

“I don't know anymore either!” said Branhucar. “I was... I was just looking for help?”

She felt a nudge from Verandis.

“Please forgive her,” said Verandis. “She's inexperienced and knows little of her history. But what she says is true. We are in desperate need of aid, and now that you're with us, I cannot imagine asking another.”

“Is that so? What of your new master?”

“I will not bargain with him again!”

Branhucar spoke up. “He hates Molag Bal, like I hate Hircine. But... please, who are you?”

“Ignorant child. I am Aiden Direnni. Do you know nothing of this place?”

“Well... we're in Glenumbra Moors.... And I'm pretty sure Verandis mentioned the Direnni saving High Rock here?”

“Has it truly been so long? Have I finally neared passage from mortal memory?”

“Oh, not exactly,” said Kyndriel. “The Alessians won in the end and... well... let's just say they invented new things to remember the Direnni by.”

“Were we speaking, whelp?”

“We are now. Listen, Aiden. The Alessians might be gone but we have a new problem. New men who revere Sheor are here, and they are trying to raise the fallen. They mean to give the dead the power of Lorkhan and turn them against High Rock. If anyone can help us, it's you.”

“What do you want from me? You might have noticed, but I'm a ghost.”

“Well, how did you defeat the Alessians?”

“I rallied the Aldmer and Bretons of this land against the zealots, just as we Direnni once lent aid to drive the Nordic tyrants back to the sea.”

“We can't _do_ that,” said Branhucar. “We don't have that kind of power and... and High Rock won't help because half the people are on _their_ side, because this time they want to get rid of all the Thalmor and all the elves here!”

“The Thalmor?” said Aiden. “What in Oblivion are the Thalmor doing _here_?”

“Telling the humans not to worship... Lorkhan,” Kyndriel said.

“It doesn't matter,” said Branhucar. “But Lorkhan.... The Direnni are powerful mages, right? The Lions are using this red metal made of Lorkhan's blood. It's Nirncrux. How do we stop the Lions and their Nirncrux?”

“You stop them before they can use their Nirncrux,” said Aiden. “Do you have the power to slaughter them before they can raise the dead?”

“No, or we wouldn't be here,” said Kyndriel.

“Well, there are more than dead Alessians here,” said Branhucar. “I mean.... I hate to ask, since I kind of grabbed you from Aetherius, but could you... maybe rally the rest of the dead to help us out?”

“Even if I wished to, no. Most of my forces have accepted their deaths and passed between Aetherius and the Mundus for millennia. As for the few who linger, I'll not waste my time.”

“Then what can we do? There are only four of us!”

“I'd advise a strategic blow against their own necromancers. Without their foul magic, they are helpless.”

“I am not a necromancer!”

“Then what caused all of this? A prayer?”

Branhucar could not speak. She stared at the floor next to the altar.

Kyndoril finally spoke. “We were desperate, Prince Aiden. But yes. Perhaps I should have instructed her in prayer, instead of standing idly while she tried to reach for help alone. I am many times her elder, after all, and should have offered guidance.”

“Hmm. Know this, young Breton,” said Aiden. “There are things that lurk in the darkness of the Void, that care nothing for your intent, and they are not all so merciful. Consider this the next time you open a gate between the realms.”

Aiden left them there. And Verandis stood. “If I must... I will confront these men alone. I do not need you three present and endangered.”

“No,” said Kyndoril. “Verandis, Kyndriel, I have a favor to ask. Fetch firewood. Quickly. And, Branhucar....”

She didn't dare to look up. But as the others left, she heard him sit nearby.

“I would be a poor teacher to unthinkingly condemn you for using such magic when I freely give my heart and soul to Lorkhan. Let us speak. There is no need for shame.”

“I shouldn't have done that,” Branhucar said. “There wasn't even a point.”

“You wanted to stop this crisis. You had good intentions. But... there are reasons necromancy is frowned upon. Life is sacred. We elves value the gift of life dearly, for despite its hardships, it is the greatest fruit of the gods' labors. But when life ends, it is by the grace of the gods that our souls return to Aetherius and the bosom of the Aedra. It is rest for the spirit between mortal lives. To deprive a soul of that rest can cause anything from insult to torture.

“Summoning Aiden was not comparable to enthralling a dying man or trapping a mortal's soul,” Kyndoril went on. “But it was still... well... impolite. And he was a prince. I do not think he was pained so much as offended.”

“Listen, I really didn't mean to summon the ghost of an elf prince.”

“And a Direnni, no less. They brought Summerset custom to High Rock, and in the Isles, the sentence for necromancy is death. A bit harsh, I think. I would not have allowed him to harm you, but you see the need for caution in magic now, I hope?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I.... I'm sorry, all right?”

“I know. As for everything you've been pulling out of Oblivion.... Well, take heart. Vanus Galerion himself was a master of conjuration, and it was he who recorded laws of arcane dynamics and summoning, so that even a common mage could exercise an abundance of caution if need to borrow from Oblivion ever arose.”

“Vanus Galerion? Wait, I thought he hated daedra?”

“Oh, yes. But a dremora is a terror to those who do not control it. Vanus knew this well and turned Coldharbour's forces upon themselves many times over during his life.”

“Oh yeah. I... I'm pretty sure I was rescued by a dremora, in Markarth. Bothela sent him to save me from the mines. He killed those giant spiders like they were just... normal tiny spiders.”

Kyndoril gaped at her. “You.... He.... But....” He regained his composure. “Still this warden of the Deadlands is her ally? Her strength remains great.”

Verandis and Kyndriel returned. And Kyndoril smiled.

“Av latta magicka, av molag anyammis,” he said.

“Uh-oh. You had some special reason for this didn't you,” said Kyndriel.

“Why of course! Thank you both. Now let us bring more light to this crypt and see if we can reach Aetherius again.”

“Again?” said Branhucar. “But... you just....”

“Communing with the dead in a manner that honors them isn't necromancy,” said Kyndoril. Behind him, Verandis opened his mouth, then decided against it and closed it again.

Branhucar looked at Kyndriel, who merely leaned closer and whispered, “Yes, it is different. No, I can't really explain it.”

There were other braziers around the catacomb. Kyndoril lit each of them and the room was thrown into a red-gold glow. Then he knelt at the center of the room, casting a wide ring of light around himself.

“This I must do alone,” he said, “but I may need more assistance after....”

He closed his eyes. At first it seemed that nothing would happen. And then white-hot stars popped in Branhucar's eyes and left her seeing rainbows of color even as she closed them. When she dared to look again, Verandis had winced and covered his face.

Kyndriel moved to stand between them, and Verandis relaxed. But his face was still pained when he lowered his arm. Luckily, the ring of light faded in moments, and so did the energy radiating from Kyndoril's body.

“Right,” said Kyndoril. “It is time I– Verandis, are you all right?”

“I have not known such pain from mere light during my long undeath.”

Kyndoril flushed. “Apologies. It turned out I needed... more than Aedric intervention this time. I sought out the chance of another soul who might guide us. I have found him. But his soul is the charge of Meridia.”

Verandis hissed at him.

“Oh, Verandis, please. If I'd anticipated an encounter with her, I would have warned you.”

“I'll forgive you this once.”

Kyndoril bowed his head. “I'm going to call upon this soul and ask him to grace us with his wisdom. I don't know what will happen if he steps into Nirn. Take any precaution you need now.”

“Your son ironically makes a decent shield from the harshness of Meridia's light.”

“Ironically,” repeated Kyndriel. “What is so ironic about me?”

Verandis did not have a chance to say. Kyndoril had turned away and begun another ritual. He was silent, but something shifted in the air and a figure faded into their view. This spirit was armored like the last, taller even than Kyndoril, and that was before adding the crown that rose another foot above his head. And the glow around him wasn't searing, but a simple pale gold. A perfectly whole and normal ghost.

Where he hadn't moved for Aiden Direnni, Kyndoril stepped back and bowed.

“Well!” said the spirit. “This is a company the likes of which I never imagined seeing again. Fascinating.”

“Your presence is a blessing,” said Kyndoril. “Please help us. Glenumbra needs you again.”

“Is this who I think it is?” asked Kyndriel. “Have you really just called Laloriaran Dynar?”

“Oh, I'm no expert, but I think he has,” said the spirit. “It is good to be among the living once more. Pray, come closer, child. Let me look at you.”

Kyndriel hesitated, then stepped forward.

“Ah, yes. I thought so. I have seen your face. You remind me of a dear friend, an ally that I knew in my final days. And this mer standing beside you is your father? Ah. He shares the resemblance. Of course. But you didn't call me to listen to an old mer reminisce.”

“We've got a new problem in Glenumbra,” said Kyndriel. “Someone has abused the blood of Lorkhan and caused the moons to bleed. And now necromancers are here, in this valley, trying to raise the dead Alessians and lead them on another wretched crusade. _And_ they plan to bind and empower them with Lorkhan's blood. I can't let it happen. But there are only four of us, and three of us are vulnerable to the blood.”

Laloriaran tilted his head. “Hm. That isn't possible....”

“King Dynar, please. You were a great tactician! You must have some idea.”

“It's not that. These acts shouldn't be possible... unless something has gone very wrong. Listen to me, my young friends. In the highest point of this valley, overlooking the battleground, is an ancient and immense power. It should have protected this place from those who would desecrate the fallen. I can no longer sense it. I fear the worst has happened.”

“Do you mean to say this ancient power could have stopped all of this?”

“No, not all of it. But if it had persisted through the currents of time, perhaps it might have thwarted the schemes of these necromancers... at least in this one place. But you're not all bound to time, are you...?”

Kyndriel stepped back. “How could you know? What do you mean?”

“I have seen many things in my long life. Your presence defies the flow of Time itself. Things that were. Things that should be. Things that should have come to pass. And yet... it embraces you.”

That was getting a bit too cryptic for Branhucar's liking. “Uh, King Dynar? Sir? He is Dragonborn, if that explains anything.”

“It raises as many questions as it answers, friend. But I hope that our Dragonborn can take advantage of this place.”

“So you do have a plan,” said Kyndriel.

The spirit nodded. “If you know me, perhaps you know my role here. But not everyone here would. Marukh's cult seized power in Cyrodiil, betrayed every elven city that had embraced Alessia's vision of a free and united people. This so-called Alessian Order brought an ultimatum to my court. My city – every man, woman, and child, whether human, mer, or betmer who remained in Nenalata would be put to the sword... unless we left. I knew that my army were too few to resist them. So I took everyone who would follow and led them into a life of exile.

“The Direnni had just liberated these lands from the Empire of the Nords, and they welcomed every survivor of Nenalata. But when the Alessian Order was not satisfied with purging the elves from Cyrodiil, they came to High Rock. They slaughtered and burned villages without discretion.

“But the Direnni were able to muster a resistance. I joined, of course. As did thousands of men and elves who were, despite all things, as one. This valley, this swamp, is where we turned the tide of the invasion at last.

“And in the middle of it all, before we could rout the Empire's armies, there was... a strange occurrence. An odd fellow walked right up to me for conversation. He was not the Breton he appeared to be. What struck me was an intuition that this person had been temporally displaced. And it was not until the distant future, in a miserable prison of Coldharbour, that I recognized them once more. Someone had traveled from the Second Era to the First. But for what, I do not know.

“I sense the same temporal instability in this place now. And yet there is also, for lack of a better term, an anchor. It must be you, if you are Dragonborn.”

Kyndriel sighed. “So... you believe I could repeat this. You want me to return to the past, your past, and right what went wrong? Is that really possible?”

“For you... I think so. My lady Meridia, whose realm is light and time, senses great potential within you.”

“Forgive me, but Lady Meridia... scares me a little.”

“She does not bear you any ill will. And... to you, who has been so quiet for all of this.”

Verandis flinched. “My lord?”

”If only I could shield you from my lady's wrath! I hold no resentment for you myself. I think I would be right to guess that Molag Bal is as much your enemy as he was mine.”

“As were the Alessian Order. Yes.”

“It warms my heart to see one counted among my oldest allies. May the Divines keep you.” And then Laloriaran Dynar turned back to Kyndriel. “Gather your companions and venture forth. Seek out the source of power here. Reach through Time, that this one triumph over hatred was not in vain.”

Laloriaran Dynar bowed and faded away.

Kyndriel waited until Dynar's presence had left them. And then he let out a held breath. “All right. Who's going to tell him about Empress Hestra.”

“_No_,” said Kyndoril. “Let's look for this power. It may be our only hope here. Verandis, do you have any idea what it might be?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Verandis replied. “I had no direct part in this battle. I was no sorcerer then.”

They left the barrow. And they still saw smoke from Lion campfires in the distance, fading into the red skies. It was nerve-wracking to turn their backs on the mob again and hurry deeper into Glenumbra Moors, knowing that at any moment, they might hear hooves or see raised spirits around them. But their passage through the misty swamps, between the old gnarled trees, was uneventful, and soon they found remains of old fortifications.

They stepped around a rotten door and stone brick that had started to collapse ages ago. The slope became steep, and soon they'd climbed high enough to look over the wall and see points of light where their enemies were. But there was nothing obviously magical about the hilltop, other than what might have been a good view once.

She felt Kyndoril search the area. And saw Kyndriel pace slowly, helmet turning this way and that as he looked for some clue.

“Dynar could have been more specific,” he said. “What sort of power? What does it really do? What are we looking for?”

“This, perhaps?”

Verandis stood near the edge of the cliff, staring down at something Branhucar had missed. It looked up a big lump of cut crystal, half buried in the dirt. Even in the darkness, even under the moons, it held a faint blue light within. Just enough to stand out, just a bit, from the grasses and rocks if someone was looking for it.

“This cannot be a varla stone,” Kyndriel said, coming for a better look. “I've... never seen anything like it. It's so warm. It's like the sun. But so much more than that.”

“I don't feel anything,” said Branhucar.

“Nor I,” said Verandis. “But I heard rumors of stones like this cropping up in Rivenspire before my... departure. Some swore they were magical. I'm afraid I doubted them.”

“But it must be,” said Kyndriel. “Let me just take a better look....”

Kyndriel reached down and laid his hand on the stone.

Golden light flashed beneath his visor.


	26. The Seed of Galen

The stone, the fragment of Aetherius, cast its multicolored glow over the rocks. Smoke rose beyond the cliffs in the distance. The scent carried on the wind. He could see bodies below, some in the armor of the Red Diamond, others wearing the wings and crests of elves. Those still on their feet were in moonstone and steel. The banners that still flew over the valley wall were distinctly Direnni.

There was a motion to his left. He turned his head and saw, lower and smaller than he expected, a living Laloriaran Dynar, in full Ayleid armor. He was flanked by a group of soldiers, human and elven. They stared up at him with awe, and what was probably fear from the way one of them twitched a hand toward their sword.

Kyndriel realized that he was much too tall, and from his footing, and his balance, and the feel of his wings and tail that he had not come to the past as an _elf_. He tried, quickly, to think of how he would speak as a dragon.

“Drem yol lok. Greetings, Ayleid king, and Direnni knights. Do not be afraid.”

“A dragon,” said Laloriaran. “A dragon graces us. This is a blessed day indeed. What brings you to this place?”

“A great need,” said Kyndriel. “You will understand, some day, but I cannot say when.”

“And what is your need, great dragon?”

“I have heard of this place, and its significance. You have done well to repel your enemy. But one crucial task remains: protecting this fated ground. Not all are happy that the Direnni have won. Some will resent it long into the future, and seek to desecrate these grounds in such a way that brings great evil upon the rest of Glenumbra.”

“Indeed. It should please you to know that the Druids of Galen are here. They bring a sacred gift to ensure good fortune and peace. That may be what you seek.”

“Excellent. They may come here as soon as they are able.”

“We did have these druids. But when they saw your magnificent form, they were frightened back to camp.”

“Oh, slek.”

“I beg your pardon, great one?”

“Forgive my outburst. Will you kindly reassure them of my peaceful intentions?”

“I can certainly try. But you must understand. It's been a few centuries since dragons were last spotted in the northern kingdoms of Tamriel. They may be hard to convince.”

“You are Laloriaran Dynar. I think you could convince anyone, or at least convince them that it's in their best interest to be convinced.”

The Ayleid king laughed, and then said, “Very well! Yes, I will return with the druids.”

Laloriaran Dynar and his company turned and retreated back down the hill, leaving him to contemplate his wings, and his feathers. Most dragons that he knew had scales. Why, though, if they were the greatest of birds?

In no time at all, Laloriaran Dynar had returned with the knights and with a handful of robed fellows. The Druids of Galen were more than he expected: men and women, humans and elves. An Aldmeri woman bore a silk pouch in her hand. Magic emanated from it.

“Greetings,” said Kyndriel again. “I apologize for frightening you. You are here to do important work, correct?”

“We are,” said the druid.

“I am curious about the nature of your work,” said Kyndriel.

“We keep the forests of High Rock, as our ancestors did before us.” The woman withdrew an acorn from the pouch. It looked ordinary, moreso than he expected with the magicka radiating from it. “This comes from the great Wyrd tree to the west, the first planted in High Rock. Like its parent, it has the potential to grow beyond mortal belief and spread its roots across this entire field.”

“I look forward to seeing it in its full glory.”

The druids laughed.

“You, maybe!” said the elf. “You shall outlive us all!”

“Not if first I die of suspense!”

“You are impatient for a timeless one.”

“Well, you've got me there.”

The druid surveyed the top of the hill – the rocks, the cliffs, the stone fort jutting out of the earth against the mountainside. And in a minute, she had selected a spot and knelt to dig a small hole. She dropped the acorn unceremoniously in, replaced the soil, and sang a few words to the new mound of dirt. Then she stood and prepared to leave.

Hope filled Kyndriel's heart. But when he expected to return to the present, nothing about the scene changed. The druids began to walk, while Laloriaran Dynar made way for them to depart.

“A moment, druids, if you please,” said Kyndriel. “Will you not stay and care for the new tree?”

“We must return to our own,” said the elf who had planted it. “We have done what we must. Now it is in the care of Y'ffre.”

“And I thank you. But there is something you must know. If the tree is unattended, it will die. The future needs this tree. So much depends on it.”

“Forgive me, dragon, but we do the work of Y'ffre, here and in the now. All mortal things have an end. That is by design. If this tree dies, perhaps that is Y'ffre's will, however sorely the future will miss it.”

“Perhaps. But from what I have seen, it may not have the chance to grow at all without more help. And I am not Y'ffre, but I do not think Y'ffre would send their druids to plant a Wyrd tree of all their creations, only to let it wither before it can live.”

“Such a thing would be unthinkable, and impossible. But what more can we give the tree?”

“Protection. And maybe a pail of water to help it along.”

Laloriaran Dynar spoke up. “O' dragon, I know of many who might jump at the chance to watch over this acorn if these druids must return to their forest.”

“Really?” exclaimed Kyndriel. “That is, of course! I would welcome any who wish to come.”

“They might be more inspired if you accompany me. Let them see you with their own eyes.”

Kyndriel shuffled where he stood. “Are you... quite certain, Ayleid king? Mortals run for their homes or weapons at the sight of a dragon. I do not wish to cause alarm.”

“These are not Nords of Skyrim, my friend. They are many who need your light.”

–

Being a dragon was a little harder than he imagined. Not keen to try flying, or crawling around like a bat as he had seen the dragons of Skyrim do, he shuffled after Laloriaran Dynar like an overgrown parrot. His wings at least were easy to manage, tucked neatly at his sides. His tail swung this way and that and he feared that he would smack someone with it.

Elves and Bretons still gasped and ducked out of their way. Most looked on in awe.

“How do you get used to this?” asked Kyndriel.

“You are a dragon, and you ask me?” said Laloriaran. “You must not get to meet a lot of people. Or... is this unusual for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“This has been a strange time. Already, I have met a soldier, who was not exactly a solider. I could not place who they were, or from whence they came. Only that they did not belong here, nor did they belong in the body they inhabited. But I valued their help nonetheless.”

“Oh thank Auri-El, you already get it.”

“I don't get it, and that's probably for the best. By the way, are you... sure you're comfortable in Ayleidoon? Would you prefer Altmeris?”

“Please and thank you. By the way, if you don't mind me saying, it is an honor to speak with you. You're a legend!”

“I shudder to think of what will qualify me for such praise.”

“And you should. But!” he added as Dynar looked over his shoulder, “I know a certain family that owes you its existence. You saved my grandmother in Cold–”

“Dragon, you are kind, but I must ask you to wait until my death to treat me as a historical figure.”

“Oh! Sorry.”

“There's no need to apologize. But as I'm sure you're aware, time is fickle. To alter its course with intent is one thing. But if you start telling me of a life I've not lived, will I know to make each decision that leads to the outcome you are expecting?”

“You raise a good point.”

“When I am dead, you may call upon me again, and of course we shall discuss matters within reason.”

“We already have.”

“Really, should you be telling me this?” Dynar stopped and lowered his voice. “All right, friend. You are odd in shape as far as dragons go.”

Kyndriel turned his head this way and that to examine his feathers. They were soft and golden and he wasn't sure if he had spines hidden underneath. It was impossible to see if he even had horns.

Dynar went on: “But there is some... particular quality within you that I have not witnessed since the days of Alessia, rest her gentle spirit. Are you Dragonborn?”

“Yes.”

“For what comes next, I need you to keep being a dragon. Be as you were with the druids. Inspire faith and courage.”

Kyndriel nodded. “What do you need of me?”

“You will see quite soon. Oh, and how is your flying?”

Kyndriel remembered soaring above the mountains, agile as a fabled Cloudrest gryphon. He leaned forward and gave his wings a test-flap. Cloth tents shook and people braced themselves.

“It seems impolite to take off here,” Kyndriel said, and continued on his feet.

–

Dynar led him from the main camp and through the marshes of Glenumbra to a small fortress near the sea. It was guarded, but after a minute Kyndriel realized its main defenses were mere palisades and wooden spikes embedded in the soil.

“Aldcroft,” said Dynar. “The last hope of so many fleeing the Alessian Order. We've saved their lives. You might just give them an even better future.”

“Yes. I see now. Let all who wish to come follow me to the hill.”

“You might have fewer takers than you think. But doubtless some will see the hope that you offer.”

The gates swung open to welcome Laloriaran Dynar into the fort, and Kyndriel saw unexpected faces. There were of course Bretons. Cyrods and a few Nords. Several Aldmeri, some the height of humans, some so tall he supposed they were Ayleids. And among the elves, many whose brown visages reminded him of his mother, of himself.

Dragons could not weep. Or express emotional interest in mortals. Laloriaran Dynar rescued him from his heart's sudden turmoil by addressing the refugees of Aldcroft.

“My friends! War has pushed us all to this corner of Tamriel. Our enemy would have us believe that alliance is impossible, that elves and men have no place in each others' hearts. And yet it is that friendship that has beaten them back!

“As you know, the Direnni have offered sanctuary in these lands. You are free to begin your lives anew. And to that end, I come bearing good news and an offer: an offer to foster a new life.”

Kyndriel's ears caught something he never imagined he would hear, mockery in spoken _Dwemeri_ dialect: “That's the worst pickup line I've ever heard!”

The crowd laughed for a good ten seconds before Laloriaran Dynar was allowed to speak again.

“Yes, well, now you see why I couldn't remarry!” he called back. And when the laughter settled down again, he went on. “As blessed as children are, I do not speak of our offspring. We have been gifted with something special: a sacred acorn of Y'ffre. This acorn has been planted at the site of the battle between the Direnni and Alessian forces, and will one day become a great tree with the power to protect its realm from future threats.

“But this acorn, in turn, needs protection. Just as Wood Elves and the Green protect each other, so do the Druids and Wyrd. Which brings us to what I'm sure you're all wondering about. This dragon has come seeking volunteers to watch over our new tree.”

Kyndriel nodded. “All who are willing are welcome to follow me. If there are any among you who hear the call of Y'ffre, or Kyne, or any of her aspects, or if you would like to live next to a magical tree, please consider it.”

There was a ripple of excitement in the crowd. But he was astonished when there were takers. A handful. A dozen. Then so many more coming forward, crowding them, unable to contain their enthusiasm.

Everything would be well. The tree would have its guardians. Glenumbra Moors would have its tree.

And when dawn came to Aldcroft, he stretched his wings and took to the skies, to soar and circle there, to lead the Wyrd's latest guardians to their new home.

They gathered around the mound where he knew the acorn was. And he thought to himself that maybe just one more push was needed to see that all would be well.

Kyndriel lowered his snout to the ground and whispered:

“Laas.”


	27. The Teeth of Sheor

The golden light faded from Kyndriel's eyes and shadow fell over the ground. When Branhucar looked up, it was into a ceiling of branches and leaves that cast dappled light to the ground. Massive roots stretched around them and down the cliff. And below, the valley was a sea of trees.

The forest hummed with magicka. The wolf howled, and she understood her excitement, and tried to contain it as she looked at the Dragonborn. He was busy stuffing something bright and gold into his bag.

“Kyn! What did you do?”

“It's the tree!” he said, standing up and turning to admire it. “The ancient power was this tree! Y'ffre be praised!”

“That is a graht oak,” whispered Kyndoril. “A graht oak in High Rock!”

“It's a Wyrd tree.”

“Well, I've been to Valenwood and I'm sure they're the same tree.”

The tree, wider than Understone Keep and far taller than any tree she'd ever seen, opened up at the bottom of the trunk, where roots separated to form a door. Firelight could be seen within. And a cobblestone path marked with glowing flowers of orange and blue led from the hill into that door. Outside the tree and in the nearest part of the valley were more mundane stone and thatch houses.

“An entire village nestled in a new forest?” whispered Verandis. “I... I'm not sure if I do or don't remember mention of this place! So this is what King Dynar meant when he spoke of you and Time!”

“Oh, Auri-El,” said the Dragonborn. “I hope this has no nasty repercussions.”

“Who cares,” said Branhucar. “We need to find out what's happened with the Lions.”

She squinted into the distance, and wondered where Elouan's men were. Smoke still rose, dark against the red skies. What was the point of the new forest? How was it supposed to help them stop the necromancers, like Dynar had said?

Then again. If the forest was magical, if it went so far....

“What are you doing?” Kyndriel asked.

“What?”

“You're doing that thing with your magicka again. What are you up to?”

“Just... thinking about what that king said. Hang on.”

If the forest was full of magicka, it was enchanted. She had spied on Estivel once – it felt like years ago that they'd been at sea – with nothing more than an enchanted boat and miles of water between them.

She walked to a nearby tree root, one as tall as a small house, and laid a hand on it. The forest's life and magicka surged under her fingertips. That magicka could be followed.

Her mind's eye swept into the valley below, through trees that teemed with life, past creatures that hadn't been there minutes ago, far off into the distance. And then life quieted, replaced by gnawing hunger in the air. There were still living things there. And souls that had lived once. The hunger, the pain burned her the longer she lingered on it.

But then there was warmth, and the pain faded, despite the presence that clung to the restless souls.

Those souls longed for release. And she could reach them.

It was just like disenchanting a mask.

The thing's grip broke, and there was chaos. Bursts of magicka. Life disappearing....

“Stop! Your arms!”

She was beneath the Wyrd tree again. Her gauntlets had rusted and split wide open. Leather had worn away. There was blood.

Branhucar felt Kyndriel catch her as she fell back, heard a flurry of movement as Kyndoril and Verandis rushed to her, saw light as they began casting spells. She was vaguely aware, through a haze of pain and confusion, of plate coming off and footsteps rushing closer.

–

The entire sky was like an aurora. Reds, greens, blues. The colors made foggy shapes somewhere far away. And in between them, dusty gold and stars.

A dirt path stretched in front of her, around grassy hills. Branhucar began to walk.

The first person she saw gaped at her, then made way for her to pass. She saw the moment of his death – a heavy arrow through his lungs – and moved on before she could see any more. The Nord said nothing.

The next had been impaled on a pike.

The next had been eviscerated.

One old man had died in his bed. She could almost smell the corpses of elves at his feet.

“It's not the Ashpit,” she whispered. “Or the Hunting Grounds.”

A dark shape moved atop a nearby hill, and she looked into the eyes of Alduin.

“Fuck!”

“**Such words do not become you,”** said Alduin, who was content to lounge on the hilltop. **“How tragic to see you here. I gave you life, and you disappoint me by dying.”**

“That wasn't you!”

Alduin's nostrils smoked. **“Give your complaints to these souls who flinch at your gaze. The voices of mortals have ever been mighty, and it is they who gave me a coat of spines and a mouth of swords.”**

Branhucar stared at him, saw the golden dragon underneath the spines, and climbed the hill to sit beside him.

“**You are too bold. That is why you are dead.”**

“I guess things can't get any worse then.”

“**I would eat you for your insolence, but not today.”**

“You're... not like I remember, from the last time I was dead.”

Alduin laughed, and it shook Sovngarde. **“You stand with a foot in both realms. You speak to me here, and yet you cling to the mortal world. Were I to devour you, your soul would be fragmented. Tortured. It would be agony unending.”**

“So I'm not really dead?”

“**I said your soul remains in the Mundus. I did not say you lived. When you are whole again, I will remove you.”**

“I....”

Branhucar stared into his red eyes, then wrapped her arms around her knees and looked at the Thief in the sky. She had thought it would be hard to be afraid while dead. But the prospect of being eaten by Alduin of all dragons was just as terrifying.

“I don't want to be eaten.”

“**Sovngarde is no place for you.”**

“Well then why am I here?”

“**Perhaps my intervention of last winter has bound you to this place. It matters not. You cannot linger in Sovngarde. I offer you a way out.”**

“Won't that... kill me for real?”

“**You have already been 'killed for real', mortal. No. You will merely be free of Shor's realm. This realm ensnares its dead, and I am the way out. Your next journey awaits, but first, we await your soul.”**

She wondered when her soul would catch up with her, and wished for more company. The last time she had been dead, one Falmer and Khajiit had been with her, and only because they'd been caught in the same fate. Death was lonely. Lonely... and boring.

“I'm going for a walk,” said Branhucar, and she left Alduin on the hilltop. He made no move to follow her. As she looked back, he stretched his wings out, then tucked them to his sides and yawned.

There were more Nords, all showing her gruesome memories of their deaths.

“Out of the way,” said Branhucar, and blinked as they obeyed. “Yeah, that's right! Piss off, all of you!”

She wasn't sure what aggravated her more: their baleful stares, or their eagerness to obey her commands.

“Oh by Malacath's hammer,” she growled, as a group of Stormcloaks fled from her. “Have any of you still got balls?!”

If they did, the Stormcloaks did not tell her. Branhucar turned her sights on a giant wearing steel and hide around his waist, and marched over to see if he would budge. He did not.

“You come here at a strange time,” said the giant. “The winds are still today....”

Branhucar paused. He was right. It was strange not to feel so much as a breeze, after all her time under the skies.

“Who are you?” she asked him.

“Hm. You wouldn't recognize me. I am Tsun.”

“So... the Nord god Tsun.”

“I am known by many peoples and called by many names. Your new family know me as Xen. You were taught to know me as Zenithar. But in this place, I am indeed Tsun.”

“What are you doing in Sovngarde?”

Tsun stepped aside, and Branhucar saw a bridge of bones spanning into the distance.

“I wait here to welcome the dead,” Tsun explained. “Any who wish to enter Shor's hall must earn the privilege to walk on my bones. I measure their valor, and will continue to guard the bridge until Shor himself releases me from my duty. Are you here to cross?”

Branhucar squinted at the fires across the bridge, then thought of the dragon waiting behind her.

“No.”

“As I thought.”

“What is Alduin doing here?”

Tsun raised his head to watch the dragon, and Branhucar followed his eyes. Alduin released a puff of fire at something she could not see.

“I suppose he offered to send you to your true rest,” said Tsun. “Alduin comes here when it is time to release Shor's loyal from his hall. All must return to the cycle.”

“But why would Shor let him do that? They're enemies. Right?”

“They were bitter enemies, for a time. But death cannot exist without life. All souls must move on, so Alduin reclaims them from this place. When they are reborn, they may serve Shor as they see fit, and so Shor's power waxes. As for the dead... most think it an honor to fall in battle with their oldest foe.”

Branhucar watched Alduin flap his wings at something. “What happens if someone beats him?”

“Defeat Alduin? Funny that you should ask. Only months ago, a great warrior calling himself Dragonborn arrived wearing a suit of dragon bones, wielding an ebony sword so flawless, so sharp, that it could not have been forged without unnatural cunning. Ancient magics infused it with power not known since the first dragons breathed fire and ice into the world. I thought him a guise of Shor, but the strange profanities he spoke revealed him as an ordinary mortal. One with stolen access to powers beyond his comprehension.”

“So... he beat Alduin.”

“Alduin gave him a spectacular performance and pretended to die in fire and agony, cursing mortalkind with his last breath. The Dragonborn performed many strange gestures and then returned to me for passage into the mortal world.”

“And...?”

“I left him on the Throat of the World, and there his corpse remains. For when he killed Paarthurnax, he deprived the mountain of its last source of warmth, save for mortal-made fires. And he thought himself so mighty that the cold would never claim him.”

Branhucar reeled. “Paarthurnax? Dead?”

“In one world. The Paarthurnax you know is alive.”

The air around her turned green. Or was it light? It was bright as the aurora, and she smelled earth. Grass. Blood.

A cool wind brushed her face.

“Ah! As I thought,” said Tsun. “Your time has not come....”

–

It was cold. Her clothes, a rare gift from a mother whose daughter had outgrown them, hung off her small body like a bag. It wasn't enough in the warrens. Nothing was ever enough.

Branhucar slipped out into the daylight and stopped to feel the sun warm her face and hair. Nobody paid her any attention as she walked along the water's edge, past the silver workers, up the steps that led just a bit closer to the heart of the city.

The forge was like a gate. On the other side was the real city, where Nords traded silver and furs, and there was more food than anyone could eat, and warriors celebrated their battles in the mountains. Everything good about Markarth came from Dibella and Talos, and Talos was their favorite secret to keep from the elves.

But Branhucar hadn't come out of the warrens for that. The forge had what she needed. Just a bit of firewood, while nobody was there. Nobody would even know they were gone. Branhucar gathered an armful turned to leave.

A large hand caught her shoulder, and she dropped the firewood in fright.

“What do you think you're doing, kid?”

Branhucar turned to face the blacksmith. The Orcish woman didn't frown at her, but she didn't look very happy either. Branhucar said nothing.

“All right,” said the blacksmith. “It's pretty obvious. So, did someone put you up to this? Or was it your idea?”

Branhucar felt tears in her eyes. She remembered the things a guard had said about what happened to thieves.

The blacksmith sighed. “Listen. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to get you in trouble, either. But if someone else catches you, well, that would be really bad for you. Got it?”

“Yeah....”

“Good. You've got to be more careful. Better if you never do it again.”

Branhucar frowned at the firewood on the ground.

“Yeah, you're gonna do it again, aren't you?” asked the blacksmith. “What's going on? Is there someone who can help you instead?”

“No!”

The blacksmith looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Right. So you're the only one looking out for you.”

Branhucar nodded.

“That's pretty crappy if you ask me,” said the blacksmith. “Tell you what. Take the wood. It's a gift now. Then come see me again tomorrow. I might be able to help you more. All right?”

–

“Today we're going to learn how to make a nail.”

“A nail?” said Branhucar. “What about....”

Ghorza shook her head. “Nails are the most important thing you'll ever make. See that roof over our heads?”

Branhucar looked up at the planks.

“Nails are pretty small and they don't look like anything special,” said Ghorza. “But they hold everything together, like the chairs and tables people take for granted. Without nails, we wouldn't have a roof at all. But nobody ever made a house out of swords.

“So when you make nails,” Ghorza went on, “you make the best damn nails you can. Don't fail your nails, and they won't fail you.”

Branhucar wondered if she was really just talking about nails.

–

Branhucar stared at the row of ingots on the table.

“You already know what this is,” said Ghorza, picking up one of the dark gray ones and handing it to her. It wasn't as heavy as Ghorza made it look. “Iron. The stuff your nails are made of. Iron is pretty strong. Not the strongest, but it's more than good enough for nails and things people need at home. Everything I cook, I cook in iron, because it's good for you.”

“Why's that?” Branhucar asked.

“Because it's good for your blood. Remember that. Now this... is steel.” Ghorza held up a bright gray ingot. “Steel is special, refined iron. You can make better tools with steel than with iron. Everyone in Tamriel has their own special technique for making steel. These Nords like to add copper to make it even stronger. Now, you didn't hear this from me, but it's still not as good as orichalcum. As for copper....”

It looked like dark gold. Branhucar turned it over in her hands.

“Copper is precious, but not because you can put it in steel. Here's a little secret. Copper slows the spread of disease, something I learned from the healers before I joined the Legion. Pretty neat, huh?”

Branhucar's eyes moved to the last ingot, and her blood ran cold. “Silver?”

“Yeah. Silver. You've never had a chance to see it like this, have you?”

She didn't want to.

“Here. It's only fair that you get a chance to see it up close, just like the rest of the city. Besides, you might get to work with it someday.”

Branhucar touched the silver ingot.

It was like holding her hand in a flame.

She stepped back and held her burned hand to her chest, while Ghorza knelt and asked to see what had happened. Branhucar bit back sobs and avoided her eyes.

Something watched them from the shade of the forge.

The ghost of a wolf.

–

She was in a soft bed. Her body ached. And... there were still the necromancers to worry about.

Branhucar opened her eyes and saw a small room and tree bark walls, illuminated by firelight from a nearby brazier. She was in a bed that looked like it had been shaped from wood, not cut from it and nailed into one.

Nails. Memories of her childhood and Ghorza's lessons drifted back, and she pushed away an odd yearning for Markarth.

Her pillow was soft and thick. So was the blanket. Full of feathers, it seemed. It gave off a strange light. Bluish white, like the edge of the sky.

Sleep still called. She rolled and closed her eyes to drift off, and wondered if she would see Markarth in her dreams. And then she looked again. It wasn't the blanket that glowed like a bright day. It was her. Strange patterns like vines wrapped around from her hands up to her shoulder. She ripped the blanket off and saw them extend underneath a new linen gown, down her front and sides, down her legs, past her knees and ankles.

“What.... Malacath's...!” As she panicked and tried not to scream, they glowed brighter. “Why!”

_You almost died_.

Being alone with a voice in her head was worse than being alone. Branhucar covered herself with her blanket again, then summoned the wolf. The wolf stood there for a moment, cocked her head, and sat down next to the bed.

“What happened?” Branhucar asked.

_You borrowed the Wyrd's power. Congratulations._

“I look like this because of the Wyrd?”

_You look like this because Lorkhan almost killed you and the Wyrd allowed its caretakers to save you. How fortunate that it favors you. It is lonely without a companion, and you have no pups for me to adopt._

She looked at her arms again. She remembered the sights of ruined armor and blood. But there was no scar, no bruise, no sign that anything had wounded her. Only lines of light that had never been there before.

_Your whole body was ravaged by Lorkhan's malice. These markings are the Wyrd tree's gift. You will bear them for a long time._

“How long?”

_How long indeed. Your parents had long lives, though they were cut short. Let us see that you outlive them. If the marks ever fade, you will have your answer._

Right. Her mother had been at least two-hundred. The prospect of living so long, and long after she should have died, suddenly felt like an enormous burden. And... she had almost died. She should have been dead.

“How long have I been... asleep?”

_A few days now._

“Where are the others?” she asked. “Did they...?”

_They're unharmed and tending to matters for conscious mortals._

“Can you stay for a bit?”

The wolf stared at her._ Afraid, are we? Very well. I'll stay until some mortal comes to take over._

Branhucar looked at her. “You remind me of someone.”

_Hm?_

“Do you happen to know Kyndoril's... ah... wolf friend?”

_I know Mara, if that is what you mean to ask._

“So it really is Mara.”

_You're adorable._

“Hey!”

_If I'm to sit here, let me tell you a story. Long ago, long before your mother's clan had any sway in the mountains, hunters came to the lush and green lands that you call Skyrim._

“Lush and green? Skyrim?”

_Who's telling the story?_

Branhucar closed her mouth.

_As I was saying. Hunters came from Atmora to Skyrim, seeking new prey. Many of these bore the gift of my once-lord, but Hircine is watchful and keen-eyed. Those who hunt in his name must overcome worthy prey through strength and cunning. But what came to pass was lawless, wanton slaughter that did not honor him. So, the Wild Hunt took them._

“Are you talking about the Nords? And everything they did to the Falmer? They got away with it.”

_Hircine has no concern for such things. His judgment was not visited on all of the Atmoran armies, or what they created. Only those who took his power for granted, who did not honor his law, were hunted and slain. I took part in executing Hircine's judgment, as did many who had formed alliances with the half-elves of the western mountains._

“You... ate a bunch of Companions?”

_Oh, no. It was no feast. It was a Wild Hunt._

“The Companions were werewolves all along? But... Vilkas said that witches...?”

_Many were, many were not. There was a time when mortals revered all manner of elder spirits. Many Atmorans coveted Hircine's gifts as well as Shor's. Some sought the power of their own will. Others used witches as a mediator between themselves and Hircine. It doesn't matter in the end, of course. And in the end, those who think themselves the most mighty of hunters are the feeblest prey._

“So... what does all of that have to do with Mara?”

_There were those, among the ancient Atmorans, who believed that Mara and Hircine were allied, and not without reason. Many believe her wolf guise represents the bonds of companionship. Few remember that she once turned mortals into lowly beasts to punish their transgressions. While we who served Hircine made sport of Companions, Mara turned her wrath on those who never raised a weapon, yet shared responsibility in the genocide. They were turned into beasts themselves. My once-lord found this agreeable and bade mortal hunters to make sport of those she judged._

“Mara let Hircine do that?”

_Mara is just and often gentle, but mortals forget that she has fangs._

Memories of Kyndoril's tales, of the Wolf persuading him to kill a defenseless villain, floated back into her mind.

_Yes, that was one example._

“So does Mara still turn people into wolves? Or werewolves?”

_Nirn is a different place now. The gods have power, yes, but they have not been so free to exercise it in thousands of years. You'll have to ask Mara about that. I'm just an ex-daedra._

“Well thanks. And I'm glad you're here.”

_I'm also glad that you're not a carcass right now._

“Hey.”

_And I know a few mortals who will also be happy to see you again._

Branhucar remembered the lines covering her body and looked at her arms again.

_Yes. Even with those._

The markings weren't so bright, as she laid there and listened to tales, but they were still there, still glowing faintly.


	28. The Agent

As the ghostly wolf promised, she lingered until a wooden door opened. First, Branhucar saw an unfamiliar face – a woman in green robes, with several leather and cloth pouches at her belt. A healer, probably. Her guess was confirmed in minutes, as the healer conducted her examination. And after having her head and neck and limbs inspected, and demonstrating that she could walk, she was left alone again.

Then she heard talking. Familiar voices. Kyndriel stepped into the doorway and looked at her as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. Then he rushed to her and she found herself squeezed in a tight hug.

“Thank the gods,” he said. “Bran! Please, never do that again!”

He'd washed his hair. The scent of dried flowers clung to his shirt. “Never do what again?”

“Oh, really funny. What came over you?” Kyndriel released her, and Branhucar noticed that Kyndoril and Verandis had come in with him. “Why did you use the tree?”

Branhucar remembered the moments before she passed out. “I had to do _something_. You remember what we did in Skyrim, right? To lift the enchantments on the masks? I found the ghosts.”

“With the Wyrd tree,” said Kyndriel. “Of all things.”

“Well, yeah,” said Branhucar. “That's what we were supposed to do with it, right? That ghost king said it would help, and... er.... I used it to free the ghosts.”

She rubbed the back of her hand. Bright lines twisted over it and stretched down her fingers.

“Anyway, it worked, didn't it?” she finished.

“It worked,” said Kyndriel. “But... there was... a backlash.”

“Wolf says Lorkhan did it.”

“As I thought!” said Kyndoril, startling them both. “It must have been the Nirncrux. We're lucky that the magic of this place saved you.”

“And... that's why I look like this now,” Branhucar said. “Wolf already told me that too.”

Kyndoril nodded. “Lorkhan's wrath is not easily stayed. Y'ffre, who gives us all life, sustains you.”

“So... Lorkhan's going to try to kill me for the rest of my life. And the only thing keeping me alive is... these magic tattoos?”

“They're not tattoos, but... yes. Don't fret. The wyresses have assured us that Y'ffre's protection is as lasting as the Wyrd.”

Branhucar looked at her hands again, then decided to force her mind off the subject. “All right. Okay. Where are we?”

“We're in the village of Galen,” said Kyndriel. “Named after the druids who provided the acorn for this very Wyrd tree. It's been here since the Battle of Glenumbra Moors.”

“No it hasn't. I mean, it wasn't here when we got here.”

“It's here now. I... don't really understand it either, but this place has thousands of years of history.”

Branhucar looked at Verandis.

Verandis smiled. “You're about to ask if it's true, aren't you? I may doubt my own memories, but I cannot deny something before my very eyes.”

“I think it feels half-real to us, since we were the last to see the swamp as it was,” said Kyndriel. “A sacred acorn was planted here. It needed caretakers. Someone... merely needed to inspire a few refugees to settle here and watch over the acorn.”

“That's... amazing and all, but....” Branhucar's mind went back to the roots. “The Lions! What happened to them?”

“What?”

“I remember something happening after I freed the ghosts. Before... you know....”

Kyndriel blinked, then shook his head. “Right. So, when everyone found us, the wyresses realized something was wrong in the forest. They sent scouts. When they got there, they found a massacre. So, er... you certainly got your ghost army.”

Branhucar felt her cheeks redden.

“There were a few survivors,” Kyndriel added, “and they've all told quite the tale. Apparently, the Alessians turned on them, called them degenerate elfspawn, and declared they would be bled like so many pigs. The ghosts departed when it was over.”

There wasn't much Branhucar could say but, “Well. Good. Had it coming.”

“And... I've never seen humans apply Aldmeri law like this. Since they trespassed and desecrated the dead... with intentions of genocide... the survivors have been sentenced to live the rest of their days in this forest. A sentence we narrowly avoided.”

“What?” Branhucar felt herself pale. “But... why? We didn't....”

“We did. Your intentions were good,” said Kyndriel. “But... we didn't exactly have permission when you used the Wyrd tree. The council pardoned us because they figured out what you did and why, but we've been kindly asked not to misuse their tree again.”

“Just be glad that an exception was made,” added Kyndoril. “They're not ungrateful that you stopped a horde of Nirncrux-empowered dead, but it _is_ their Wyrd tree and it's a wonder that Lorkhan didn't take the tree down with you.”

Branhucar imagined having to spend her entire life in a forest. As if her brush with death and a lifetime as a magical light weren't enough.

Stopping the cult had been worth it, she reminded herself.

“So... Kyn here changed time to put this whole tree here,” said Branhucar. “I did the thing with the tree, and now the necromancers are gone. What about the moons?”

Kyndoril's face fell, and he looked at his son.

“My nightmares worsen,” Kyndriel said. “We've asked the wyresses for their counsel. But they deal with the forest, not the moons. They're as lost as we are.”

“And on that matter,” said Verandis. “There's someone here that I must speak with. Now that you're awake, Branhucar, I can finally invite you all to join me.”

Branhucar looked at him. “Sure, but.... Uh....”

“Does something trouble you?” Verandis asked.

“I don't want to go meeting people like this,” she said, looking at her gown. “And I could eat a bear.”

Kyndriel picked up something at the other end of her bed, that she hadn't noticed while caught up in her thoughts. “Galen has spare clothes for you and you can have whatever you want out of the rations. We'll go see Verandis' friend as soon as you're ready.”

–

It was a welcome change to return to layered robes, simple boots, light gloves. Though Branhucar had become accustomed to the weight of plate armor, it was so easy to don cloth instead.

But, how to better protect herself? It was a simple thing to cast Oakflesh, but it wasn't the same as real armor. She knew that Kyndoril's leather had been enchanted to grant the same protection as steel. She would have to ask him about it later, she thought, as she tore into a slice of jerky.

When she was finally satisfied that she'd eaten enough, she rejoined the others, and they walked through the halls of the Wyrd tree. She tried not to marvel at it. Of course her room was not the only one shaped from the wood itself. Ramps spiraled up into the heights of the tree like vines, flattening only at each landing, where she had a moment to glimpse into spacious rooms lit by plants and magical fires before moving on.

“How does this even work?” Branhucar asked.

“I don't know what method the people here use,” said Kyndoril. “But in Valenwood, Bosmeri spinners sing to their graht oaks. Their song shapes the tree. And then, as you see around us, they lay stones for the floor and bring in soil and seeds for flowers that light this place.”

Verandis finally turned at one landing and led them into a room. A group of men with various bandaged injuries sat around a long table, eating a meal as armed guards stood by the doors. The men watched as they passed. One yelled something insulting, but wilted under Verandis' gaze, and nothing else was heard from them.

“Our surviving Lions,” Verandis quietly explained as they came to another hall. “Galen doesn't trust them yet, but they're allowed to stretch their legs provided they behave themselves.”

“Then this is the prison, or what passes for it,” said Kyndriel.

“Yes. Now, the man we're here to visit doesn't like the Lions very much. He requested solitude, I'm told.”

“What kind of prisoner wants to be locked up alone?”

“You'll see.”

They came to a door watched by a single guard. At the sight of them, the guard unlocked it and opened it for them.

The room was a bit larger than the cells Branhucar was used to. And the prisoner, a man with brown hair, sat at a small table playing with the bones that remained of his food.

“Well well!” said Verandis. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

The Breton looked at Verandis, and his face lit up. “Oh! Thank the Divines. Listen, would you mind getting me out of here? I really don't want to spend the rest of my life in a tree.”

“You've met?” asked Kyndriel.

The man had a familiar look about him.

“I found him in Rivenspire,” said Verandis.

Branhucar pictured him in leather armor. Imagined what he would look like if they met in a sewer. Heard his words, months ago, as he offered them a way to safety.

“Aves?” she asked.

The man looked at her, then Kyndriel and his father, and gave a sheepish grin. “Have we met...?”

“Aves, you piece of shit!” Her markings flashed, but she decided to ignore them. “What did you do to Verandis?”

“I appreciate your concern,” said Verandis. “But you needn't worry for my sake.”

“He sold us out to Elouan!”

“Did he? Well, I'll need to hear more about that, but I wouldn't count him among your enemies.”

“I can explain,” said Aves. “Listen. Dragonborn. I've been looking for you for ages.”

Kyndriel folded his arms. “Why, exactly? I've already wasted my time with Elouan. He's dead now, and frankly you're lucky that the people of Galen found you before I did.”

“Listen, I've been trying to find you ever since you went to Alcaire.”

“Since you sent us to Alcaire.”

“I had a good reason! The Thalmor would have found you if you stayed close to Shornhelm. I needed you safe until we could meet again. But I was waylaid, and Elouan....”

“Then what is your part in all of this?”

“I was a spy. Not his spy!” Aves added. “Look, I'll tell you what I told Verandis. My name is Aves Direnni. Son of Endalle Direnni. My lady sent me to learn of the troubles in High Rock and find you.”

“Wait. Aves _Direnni_?” Kyndriel's anger faded, replaced by suspicion. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Your name is _Bird Bird_?”

“Now, now,” said Verandis. “There's no need for cruelty.”

“What did your lady want with me, Bird Bird?”

Aves rolled his eyes. “That's not for me to know.”

“Really.”

“He speaks the truth,” said Verandis. “Even as a son of House Direnni, he would not be trusted with the secrets of his elders, let alone their seers.”

“And why do you trust him?” asked Kyndriel.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Aves while he journeyed through the forest near Crestshade,” said Verandis, while Aves leaned on the table and massaged his forehead. “His comrades, Elouan's loyal, thought I'd make good sport. Aves shamed them for even thinking of killing a lone, helpless man and attempted to stop them, but he too was one man. When I had disposed of the rest, I healed his wounds, and he explained himself. He has been an invaluable asset ever since.”

“One man in a gang of craven racists decided not to commit a murder, and you trusted him?”

“Oh, no. Not for some time. There were days I feared I'd need to kill him, but he has surpassed my expectations.”

“That's a spy's life for you,” Aves said. “Would you, uh, tell the guards to release me? Please?”

Kyndriel ignored him. “So why didn't you tell us about him before?”

“I consider you allies as well,” said Verandis. “But as I'm sure your highborn father can tell you, there are some secrets that you do not share with anyone, even those closest to you. Now there is little point in keeping him a secret, and nothing in the way of his mission. Well, nothing save his new predicament.”

“All right. Suppose we decide to trust him for now,” said Kyndriel. He looked back down at Aves. “You really can't tell me anything about the Direnni?”

“I can tell you plenty about House Direnni,” said Aves. “But I can't tell you what they want from you.”

“One moment,” said Kyndoril. “Verandis, I think we should hear why exactly your spy was among the survivors the scouts rescued.”

“Thank you, I was about to ask,” said Verandis. “Aves, I never asked you to follow us to Glenumbra Moors. You had another task.”

“Well, true, but _I_ still needed the Dragonborn, and it was pretty obvious that the Lions were going there next. Don't worry! The thing in Dwynnarth is fine now.”

“What thing in Dwynnarth?” Kyndriel asked.

Verandis smiled. “Oh, he made sure our lich friend wouldn't come back to haunt us.” Then he looked down at Aves again. “What did you do when you rejoined Elouan's men?”

“Stayed quiet,” said Aves. “Tried to make things a little harder for the necromancers without them noticing. Did you know one of them couldn't digest cow's milk? Let's just say they had to delay their ritual by a whole night while he recovered.”

Kyndriel sighed. “Well, that night gave us crucial time. Perhaps I can forgive you.”

“Thank you, Dragonborn.”

“Perhaps, I said. If your master–”

“I'm not his master,” said Verandis. “The Direnni would flay me for poaching their errand boy.”

“If Verandis agrees,” Kyndriel sighed, “then we'll vouch for you and see about getting you out of this tree.”

“My agreement is one thing,” said Verandis. “I must make his case before the council, by the day's end preferably.”

“And do you think it'll work?”

“They were reasonable with us before. I think once they understand who they have on their hands, they'll be happy to release him to me.”

“But will Galen honor a request from the Direnni, let alone a long lost count?”

“We shall see.”

–

Appealing for Aves' freedom was a task for Verandis and Kyndriel. Branhucar waited below, in a great, round hall with Kyndoril, and thought that it was for the best. She could still imagine the tree root under her fingertips. She couldn't imagine the council being happy to see her.

And yet, it seemed odd that Kyndoril hadn't gone.

“You know your way around these things,” she told him. “Why stay out here?”

“I don't care for matters of court,” Kyndoril said. “And the others are in a better position to persuade than I. Besides, it wouldn't do to leave you here by yourself.”

“Huh. Thanks.”

“And, I've been meaning to speak to you.”

Branhucar looked up at Kyndoril, expecting to find him serious, but he wore a gentle smile.

“Your magic is strong, you know,” he said. “But, I see why Ondolemar insisted on having you carry a staff. A shame we left it aboard my mother's ship.”

“I don't know. I never did anything like all of this in Skyrim. Except that thing with the masks, and Kyn helped.”

“I think Ondolemar saw the same thing I do. Your potential. My son told me that you knew how to cast basic spells, and he tried to teach you to use them in defense, and that another mage provided books. But that couldn't have prepared you for the magic we've seen from you.”

She remembered the atronach rampage. And the wrath of Aiden Direnni. “Oh. You mean what happened in Wayrest. And that prince.”

“Oh, no, it's not the kind of magic I'm concerned with. How can I explain this? Try to cast a light. Just a simple one will do.”

Branhucar summoned a light to her fingertips. And at once her vine markings lit up, bright as her spell.

“Ah! See how Yffre's blessing reacts,” said Kyndoril. “You're putting a lot of power into your magic. You could use less, a quarter even, and still cast the same light. You can release it now.”

To her relief, the markings faded to a soft blue as the light flickered out.

“So what am I supposed to do about it?” she asked. “Get another staff?”

“A staff would make an excellent tool, but I think you'll benefit more over the years if you come to understand your own magicka. Learn where your power begins and ends. I'm not old or wise by any means, and certainly not a guild magister, but perhaps I could teach you.”

“You'd... really do that?”

“Yes! I've thought to ask Kyndriel as well. His magic is improving. He's gaining confidence. But he never had the opportunity to study as I did. Neither of you have.”

“Do we really have time for magic lessons when the moons are... like this?”

“Hm. Travel and Lorkhanic crisis are hardly conducive to study. But I promise you this. When all of this is over, when we have peace again, we'll find you a staff, and you will learn magic like a mer of Summerset.”

“You really think we're going to fix it?”

Kyndoril sighed. “Aedra willing. It isn't easy to hope, but we must.”

Her nose caught something strange. Leather. Polish. The scent of dried herbs. The last time she had smelled that....

There was no one around to give off a scent like that, and she returned her thoughts to their task.

“And this... council the others are talking to,” Branhucar said. “They can't do anything? At all?”

“About this crisis? No. Their domain is the forest. And they can only hope that it will protect them from whatever comes.”

The forest hadn't even stopped necromancers on its own, but Branhucar kept that thought in her head. Instead, she asked, “How's it going to do that?”

“Well, according to legend, the Wyrd trees sheltered men and elves from Lorkhan's rampage in the Dawn. When it was over, they were so grateful to Y'ffre that instead of leaving, like the ancestors of the Altmer and Nords, they stayed in ancient High Rock to be with their trees. They gave rise to the Druids of Galen, and the wyresses as we know them. And this region came to be known, in old Aldmeris, as the Woods of Galen. Glenumbra, as the Empire came to call it.”

“Huh. Kyn was right. Aicantar of Shimmerene _was_ full of shit.”

“Aicantar liked to believe ancient Tamriel uncivilized, barbaric, and that all elven civilization on the continent sprang from Summerset.”

Something dark caught Branhucar's eye. Her nose hadn't been lying after all.

“But as for your question, the council doesn't know how to stall the crisis. But they pray that the trees will keep them safe, just as they did in the Dawn.”

“Thalmor,” Branhucar whispered.

“What? Oh, yes.” Kyndoril glanced at the dark robed and armored mer across the hall. “Forgot to mention them. Galen may be new to us, but apparently the Thalmor have been negotiating with the wyresses and council for years now.”

“What for?”

“Y'ffre is a pagan god to the Empire, and Imperial High Rock. But not to Summerset. I daresay the Wyrd has piqued their curiosity.”

“Do they know we're here?”

“Well... yes. They became very aware upon our arrival.”

“And why are they just letting us be?”

Kyndoril folded his hands behind his back. “They were among those who found us beneath the tree. They recognized us. But when they saw you... and our despair... they stayed their hands.”

“You're kidding.”

“Mara's heart beats beneath the breast of all mortals. It is rare for the Thalmor to heed it, and for once, they did. Of course, once it became clear you would live, they approached us with a choice.”

“I don't like where this is going.”

“Nor did I. The Thalmor offered clemency in exchange for a mere three-hundred years of servitude. A price that I and Kyndriel could easily pay, but that would be less convenient for a half-elf.”

“And what was the other choice?”

“If we did not accept, they would not take us by force. But they would leave our fate to the council of Galen, and gave their word that they would honor their decision, however grim. The Thalmor believed we would meet the same fate as the Lions, or worse. As you've surely gathered, we decided to take our chances with the council.”

“And since the council is letting us go....”

“The Thalmor must abide it. I daresay their superiors in Daggerfall will be displeased and seek to correct the matter.”

“So we shouldn't trust them. Just wait. The minute we get out of this tree, they'll sneak up and–”

“Boo!”

Branhucar jumped and whirled around, then considered slapping the Dragonborn. Kyndriel's silly, grinning face was a bit too high to be worth it.

“You ass,” she said, while the light of her markings faded away. Then she noticed the man behind him. “See you busted Aves out?”

“Barely,” said Kyndriel. “He's only here because he might just help us fix this mess Elouan started. Really, getting caught among a mob of genocidal cultists just wasn't a good look.”

“We need to go straight to Balfiera,” said Aves. “I got here from the port in Wayrest. It's weeks from here but....”

“We need a better option,” said Kyndriel. “I want to stay as far from Wayrest as possible and there must be a closer port.”

“Well... there is a town on the sea, just south of the woods. If you think that any captain in Aldcroft knows how to sail to Balfiera, that is.”

“If we get there and they don't, we lose, what? Half a day?”

“I'm with Kyn,” said Branhucar. “I want to try that before we walk all the way back.”

“Then it's settled. We're gathering our things and leaving. Before our friends over there have time to notice.”


	29. The Lady of the Sea

Kyndriel knew the way to Aldcroft, as he explained to them during their walk.

“I was a dragon,” he told them. “And I followed King Dynar to Aldcroft, then flew back! I know my way here.”

The Glenumbra Woods, as they were now called, were thick, maze-like, and so easy to get lost in. The mist was thinner, but still enough to mask their path. And the tainted skies, the unnatural light piercing the canopy gave the whole forest an air of being cursed.

“Yeah, when it was a swamp,” Branhucar said. “Thousands of years ago. Are you sure we're going the right way?”

“I'm sure of it. The road is... that way...ish. Trust me.”

There wasn't much choice; it was him or their own sense of direction. Eventually, as they passed out of the valley, the trees thinned and gave way to the foggy swamp that she remembered. The road was clearer to the eye, and in the distance, she could make out the fire of a lighthouse.

Soon enough, they'd be on a ship, she told herself. All of their marching would be worth it. She would be able to rest again while they sailed off to some magical island. And then....

The moons glared down at them. The moons were the omen of death. Lorkhan... Sheor would consume everything....

“Oh, not you too,” Kyndoril whispered. “And you're glowing again.”

Branhucar looked underneath her gloves. He was right.

“Let us pretend the moons aren't even there,” said Kyndoril.

“That's impossible.”

“Of course it isn't. They were gone for two years once, and they can fuck right off again for all I care.”

Branhucar looked at him, and he laughed and kept walking.

But he was right. Ignoring the sky and thinking about their destination instead made it much easier to bare. The stone walls and gateway of a town were close, after all....

Kyndriel slowed. In the distance, flanking the gate, were a pair of blue and white banners emblazoned with the head of a flame-maned lion.

“You must be joking,” Branhucar said. “They got all this way?”

“The woods are close enough,” said Kyndriel. “You would think I would have learned by now.... No, of course we didn't finish them in the woods.”

“Then what happens now?”

“We still need our ship.”

The guards at the gate watched them closely as they passed. Branhucar felt eyes linger on her. Did her face bear markings, just like her hands and arms? But nobody moved to stop them. And once beyond the gate, the town seemed like any other. Save for the quiet.

The Lions weren't a normal presence in the town, that much was obvious. Despite the few they passed on the streets, it was hard to say whether the Lions or the moons were more to blame for keeping the people of Aldcroft in their homes.

Finding the harbor was as easy as following the water's edge. Many ships – some small and clearly for fishing, a few towering further out in the water – waited there. Kyndriel's head turned as he walked, and without a word he hummed in approval and led them to one of the larger vessels.

The captain eyed them wearily. “You're not looking for passage, are you?”

“We are,” Kyndriel raised his visor. “Could you get us to Balfiera?”

“Balfiera! No. Even if I wanted to, sailing's forbidden right now.”

Kyndriel glanced up at the moons, then sighed. “It's the sky, isn't it? When was the last time you went out to sea?”

“It's been weeks. Yes, the skies are a bad omen. No man here is willing to risk Kynareth's fury. Harbormaster won't allow it anyhow.”

“That's dreadful. And I suppose your business is suffering for it.”

“It is.”

“Suppose I had a word with this harbormaster and he granted you special permission. We have coin to pay for passage, and our need is great. Would you reconsider my request?”

“No. I'm not sailing to that island for anything.”

“Well, if I can't change your mind, fair day.”

As soon as they were back on the dock, Kyndriel swore under his breath. His father shrugged.

“I could have told you this would be difficult,” said Kyndoril. “The apocalypse always puts sailors off.”

Just as it had been in Kyndoril's stories, nobody would ferry them to their destination. They left the docks and wandered in search of the inn, arguing all the while about their next course of action.

“I am not hiding in a church basement until someone takes us to Balfiera,” said Kyndriel.

Kyndoril frowned at him.

“This town doesn't even have a church,” said Verandis. “I know because nothing is trying to set me on fire. I jest,” he added as they looked at him. “If the gods were so offended I'd have died long ago.”

“I've another idea,” said Kyndoril. “And I think you'll be up to the task, Kyndriel.”

Kyndriel squinted at him. “All right, you insufferable felon. What are you planning now?”

“Oh, nothing that you'll object to, or so I think. Let me put it this way. You've shown your talent as a mer of the Divine Prosecution. But what was your original career path?”

The Dragonborn blinked in surprise. Then he looked past his father's shoulder and muttered, “I wanted to go to Shimmerene and be a scholar.”

“You... did. That's right.”

“And then....”

“I know. I still mourn those lost years.”

There was a painful silence between them, during which Aves and Verandis pretended to take interest in a notice board several feet away. Branhucar thought about joining them.

“Sad as it is to say, child,” said Kyndoril, “at some point we must acknowledge that the past lies shattered, like so much aether-quartz and glass. Perhaps....”

Kyndoril trailed off and stared at something only he could see on the cobblestones.

“Er.... Father?”

“Gods, what was I going to say?”

Kyndriel gave him a sad smile. “You were going to suggest crimes.”

“Oh, no no no! Of course not,” said Kyndoril. “No, I was merely going to say that you need to stop thinking like a justiciar and start thinking like a marine.”

–

“I can't believe we're doing this,” whispered Kyndriel.

He had objected at first, as they'd plotted in Aldcroft's small inn. But there was a hint of excitement in his voice, as they trailed behind Kyndoril. He and Verandis had gone ahead of them. They melted into the night and emerged only to strike. Guards in their path dropped like flies, forced into a magical sleep that would not lift for hours.

Something about the way Verandis moved unnerved Branhucar. He was too fast and too well hidden, always appearing where she did not expect. He even startled Kyndoril.

“So that's why people are scared of vampires,” she said.

“That and the bloodsucking,” said Aves.

Branhucar waited for her heart to slow down – she'd forgotten Aves completely. She hadn't noticed him the entire time he'd been following them to the docks. Maybe there was a reason he was a spy.

“There's nothing wrong with how Verandis has to eat,” she whispered.

“I mean, it's a curse.”

“Well it's not like it's his fault Molag Bal is evil.”

“Nobody's saying that.”

She rolled her eyes and tiptoed as they passed a sleeping guard who Kyndoril had concealed next to a rain barrel.

Soon they had reached their target: a modest fishing ship. As Kyndoril and Verandis made quick work of the lookout, Kyndriel ascended the gangplank, then cast an eye over the deck.

“All right, lads, and everyone who isn't. We do this quick. Branhucar, see that wheel? I need you to raise the anchor. Use all the strength you've got. And I do mean all of it.”

Branhucar nodded and and hurried to the wheel. She grabbed it and pushed, and found a little give. With a bit of effort, and the attention of her wolf, it started to move. As she walked, she saw the shadows change as Kyndoril and Verandis raised the sails....

The boat drifted away from the dock, and out of the harbor. And as soon as the anchor was hauled up and secure, Branhucar caught her breath and went to find Kyndriel. The Dragonborn had cheerfully taken up position at the helm, and shed the one he'd been wearing.

“Now this is what I was born for,” he said.

Branhucar looked at him, then at the lights of Aldcroft fading into the distance. “What. Piracy?”

“Oh, please.”

“Well, your grandma's a pirate. Your other grandma's a super old Nord so she's probably a pirate too.”

Kyndriel snorted.

“And then there's your dad who's like a pirate except he only does pirate things on land.”

“We call those thieves, Bran.”

“And here you are, pirating right now!”

“This isn't piracy,” said Kyndriel. He cleared his throat and grinned, then said in an Alinoran accent that hadn't been so clear since Markarth: “I have taken control of a vessel not exceeding our needs, in dire times, with the solemn objective of defending those who cannot defend themselves. It is a necessary measure and my duty as a First Auridon Marine.”

“You're a thief, Kyndriel,” said his father. “Your true calling is written in the stars of your birth.”

“I don't see you doing any lording.”

“The noblest calling is letting go of the comforts of power and seeking to aid others. As for you, let's say your stars brought a welcome opportunity.”

“Hmph.”

Branhucar laughed. But then she noticed something. Back on shore, several tiny lights had flared up.

“Uh, I think they're figuring out what happened,” she said. “At the harbor.”

“Is that so,” said Kyndriel. “Well, unless they've got the stones to chase us out to sea, I don't think we're going to have any problems.”

Some of those lights appeared to be climbing. As if a gang of men were boarding one of the larger vessels.

“Yeah, I think they're mad,” said Branhucar. “Can this thing go any faster?”

“Not unless you can magic some wind into the sails,” said Kyndriel. “And please don't, we need wind, not a gale. Aves!”

Aves Direnni, who'd been lurking by the mast, perked up. “Yeah?”

“You know anything about sailing?”

“Nope!”

“Why did we agree to bring him,” whispered Kyndriel, before addressing Aves again. “Well get up here anyway! I need eyes behind us!”

As Aves climbed the steps, Kyndriel turned away from the wheel and cast a nervous eye back to shore. Then he looked up at the sails.

“Right. Everyone hang onto something! I'm going to give us a push!”

Branhucar gripped the rail and watched the others brace themselves. Seconds later, the Dragonborn drew a breath and shouted into the skies: “Okaaz ven!”

There was a rush of wind, the sails filled, and with a startling lurch the boat began to fly through the waves. Soon the harbor and the rest of Aldcroft had faded out of sight. The winds persisted another minute before weakening to a point where Branhucar felt safe walking back to Kyndriel on her wobbling legs.

“I thought you said we didn't need a gale,” she said.

“I did, but at least it worked. Are you all right?”

Her stomach said no, but she ignored it. “Doesn't matter. Which way is Balfiera from here? You know?”

Kyndriel nodded. “Do you remember when we left Alcaire for the first time?”

She remembered her relief to be away from Elouan and his keep. If only they'd known what he'd really intended for them. If only there had been a way to change time, stop everything from going wrong....

“The Adamantine Tower is as good a beacon as any,” Kyndriel explained. “All I need to do is... follow the magical screaming.”

“I can't hear it,” said Branhucar. Aside from the sounds of the wind and waves, their boat, their voices, all was silent.

“Hm. Well, you wouldn't want to.”

“Is it better or worse than the moons?”

“Yes.”

“What does it sound like?”

“You know that little, high-pitched noise that you can hear when all is quiet and still?”

“What, tinnitus? Ghorza told me that's tinnitus.”

“No, no. It's almost like that, but magical, and you can feel it in your very being.”

Branhucar tried to imagine what he was describing, but only managed to convince her own ears to start ringing, and wondered if they would ever stop again.

–

“Dragonborn! We've got trouble!”

Branhucar looked up as Aves pointed behind them. Kyndriel turned and swore, and as she stood and hurried to the stern, she saw it. One of the ships of Aldcroft, gaining with every second.

“Use that shout again!” she said.

“They're getting too close! If I call the wind now, they'll only–”

Kyndoril strode forward, his hands ablaze with a rainbow of colors.

“Stand aside!” he barked, and Aves scurried back.

“I hoped I would never need this magic.” Kyndoril stretched a hand over the water. The sea between them and the closing ship started to steam. His hand shook, the effort clearly straining him. “Now! See how a lord of Luxurene defends his–!”

Something erupted from the water with an almighty roar, and Kyndoril screamed and ceased his casting. Branhucar watched in terror as a long white neck with red fins rose high above them. But its back was to them. And it splayed wing-like fins, blocking their pursuers from sight, as lightning crackled in front of it.

There was a burst of light, followed by a blast, and the sea dragon dove. Branhucar's ears caught the faint sounds of screams, as the moons and lightning lit up a broken and sinking vessel. The dragon surfaced again and slammed what was left of the wreckage under the waves.

“Stuhn's iron shield,” Kyndoril whimpered. “We can't fight a sea dragon on a boat!”

“Stand your ground!” Kyndriel yelled. “This isn't over yet!”

“What ground?”

“Stow your whining! We didn't come this far just to drown here!”

The sea dragon dove again. The deck rocked, and soon they were showered with seawater as it rose above the side of their ship and stared down at them. And as Branhucar wondered if a werewolf could swim, its eyes fell on Kyndriel.

“**DREM YOL LOK... DOVAHKIIN....”**

There was a moment's pause, as the dragon's words settled into her mind.

The air was calm. The skies were clear. They weren't sinking into the ocean. The sea dragon watched them and waited.

“Drem yol lok?” Kyndriel repeated.

The sea dragon lowered its head to look more closely at him.

Kyndriel stared. “You... know who I am?”

The sea dragon drew back. And a golden spectral form took shape on the deck between them – a mer in ancient elven armor resembling that which they'd seen in Glenumbra Moors. The ghost knelt and spoke.

“Dragonborn. At last, after all these years, I've found you!”

“All right, I'm confused,” said Kyndriel. “Are you mer or dragon?”

“I am not both of these things as you are,” said the ghost, as the sea dragon looked on. “In life, I was Llyriil Direnni. I served as a diplomat of Balfiera to the Daggerfall Covenant and neighboring lands. I traveled High Rock, maintaining alliances with its rulers, the Wyrd, the Reach kingdoms. But, more importantly, I sought a person of... certain intrinsic Aetherial qualities. The Dragonborn.”

“And why were you looking for the Dragonborn?” Kyndriel looked over his shoulder. “Aves?”

“The Direnni like to keep secrets, even from their own, so forgive me if I cannot divulge,” said Llyriil, while Aves shrugged. “But in the hour of my birth, one of our elders foresaw some destiny linking my fate to the arrival of the Dragonborn. When the Covenant dissolved, I dedicated myself to searching for you.

“Alas, within mere centuries I was called to defend High Rock from Imperial assault like so many of Clan Direnni before me. I faced the army of Tiber Septim as he crossed from Evermore. I thought if reason failed, my skill as a battlemage would protect these lands. It didn't. My body fell into the Iliac Bay. And as I died, I saw the sea dragon approach. But she took pity on me and kept my soul.”

“Well, that must have been your Dragonborn,” said Kyndriel. “A shame.”

“And yet, he must have been Lorkhan. I heard the endless hunger in his voice. And I felt his unquenchable malice as his blade pierced my gut. So too have I felt the pain of the Lady of the Sea in recent months, as men brought accursed weapons of ebony and Nirncrux to chase her back into the bay.”

“I see. Is that why I angered you... her... when I tried to approach by the bridge? Did my own Voice remind you of your pain? Of the Lady's pain?”

“I regret that it did. If only I'd had the clarity I have now! I might have been able to warn you. I might have opened your eyes to Elouan's schemes, the remnants of Marukhati fanaticism in these lands!”

“We knew,” said Kyndriel. “And I was afraid to see it for what it was. But in speaking of sight and knowing, why do you know us now?”

“You carry a magnificent treasure now. Its magic reminded me of my purpose and called the Lady of the Sea back to the bay.”

Kyndriel frowned, then withdrew something bright and gold from his bag and held it up for Llyriil and the Lady of the Sea to view. “Do you mean this?”

“By the empyrean light! That could only be Auri-El's feather! When I walked with my dear Gwendolyn, the people of Galen spoke of the dawn when he led them to the founding of their Wyrd tree, their town. How did you come by this?”

Kyndriel stared at Llyriil. Then made a strange noise somewhere between a hmph and a squeak. Then shrugged. “It was a gift from the good people of Galen.”

The Lady of the Sea peered at him. **“NOK. YOU ARE A POOR LIAR, DOVAHKIIN.”**

“Listen, Lady of the Sea, it's been a very weird century and it was bad enough when I thought I was cursed by Lorkhan,” said Kyndriel. “Can we please move on? What is your name, actually? May I have your name?”

“**SOME CALL ME ITHGULEOIR. A RARE FEW MISTAKE ME FOR ORGNUM, THOUGH I AM OBVIOUSLY NOT HE. I AM RAHROTVAHRUKT, SOTMIRAADVAHLOK.”**

“I am deeply humbled and I regret asking.”

“**YOU ARE MOST WELCOME.”**

“Begging your pardon, Dragonborn,” said Llyriil, “but would you kindly explain what that means? I have accompanied the Lady all this time and, well, I am but a mortal.”

“Mortality has nothing to do with it,” said Kyndriel. “Dovahzul was commonly spoken by many peoples who interacted with dragons before.... Oh. Oh! Lady of the Sea, do I have your permission?”

“**IT MAKES LITTLE DIFFERENCE AT THE EDGE OF OBLIVION.”**

“Now you're just being ominous.... Her name is Gods-Words-Memory, her title is White-Door-Guardian.”

Llyriil turned to gaze into the distance, at the Adamantine Tower. Then at the Lady of the Sea, who wriggled in the water as if possessed by the spirit of an excited dog.

“**AT LAST. SOMEONE UNDERSTANDS.”**

“Lady of the Sea,” said Llyriil, “I understand now! The Dragonborn... _this_ Dragonborn must reach Balfiera!”

“That's what I've been saying!” exclaimed Aves. “You do believe me now, right?”

Kyndriel ignored him. “We were already hoping to visit. You must have noticed the moons. The skies. We hoped that the Direnni would have an answer to this.”

The Lady of the Sea gazed at Kyndriel.

“**PERHAPS. BUT KNOW THIS. IT WILL NOT BE MORTAL MEANS THAT END THIS BLIGHT. FOR THERE WILL BE NO END.”**

“You mean we're just going to have to live with this?”

“**NONE WILL.”**

“We're doomed?”

“**NO.”**

“Rahrotvahrukt. I beg you. Stop being so ominous.”

“**ALL SHALL BE MADE CLEAR. FOLLOW ME TO THE ISLAND. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR IN THESE WATERS WHILE I AM HERE.”**


	30. Resolve

True to the sea dragon's word, the rest of the voyage to Balfiera was peaceful. That was fortunate, thought Branhucar. Kyndriel seemed lost in his mind, almost inattentive as he followed the dragon through the Iliac Bay.

She couldn't blame him. Whatever waited for the Dragonborn at Balfiera, only the sea dragon could imagine it, and her thoughts on the topic didn't inspire much hope. Even her assurances rang as though she carried a dreadful secret.

After a while, a silver tower rose above the water, signaling the lands beneath. And as the mountainous isle grew, the tower stretched ever higher, until it pierced the night sky. And there, something rippled outward – violet at first, then black.

Branhucar saw it then, from the tower's shadow: stars against the darkness of the night sky. An aurora held back the curse of the moons.

“It's like the eye of a hurricane,” said Kyndriel. “The Adamantine Tower must be protecting the island from Lorkhan's influence.”

“Would be nice if it worked further out.”

“But... it should. Bran, we're looking at the tower that was built by the gods. Auri-El, Magnus, all of them. If the tower of the gods can shield this small area, then.... I don't understand it either.”

He turned his attention back to navigating. A city was visible on the shores of the island, and the sea dragon's glistening scales could be seen near the docks.

“Are you all right, Kyn?” Branhucar asked.

“Do you remember when we climbed to Bromjunaar, just before we left Skyrim?”

She did. But no Thalmor would be waiting for them on the isle.

“All I could think of was running,” said Kyndriel. “And... I should have. I never should have endangered us. I never should have listened to Elouan or his henchmen either. But now... a ghost and a dragon are telling me to go to the Direnni. What choice do I have this time?”

“I think if a friendly dragon is saying it, it's probably for a good reason,” said Branhucar.

Maybe he had a point. Their mistakes had led them from one part of High Rock to the next. The reminder of her last mistake still hummed under her gloves. She covered her wrist.

“Listen, Kyn. I get it. If I were smarter... I wouldn't even be here,” she said. “I'd be in Markarth. I'd be working for Ghorza, making my first real armor. Not here. On this boat.”

“You... didn't do anything wrong.”

“Well.... I shouldn't have tried to meet Eltrys. What in Oblivion was I thinking? I shouldn't have waited for you and Ren'dar in Whiterun, either, I should have run away and hid in Winterhold and let you Thalmor get your own heads out of your asses. I've done all these stupid things and... I never really had to!”

He winced. “What a year, hm?”

“But... things are better now! Markarth was horrible. I grew up scared of the city, and now I never have to go back. And I know how to be a werewolf now, instead of being afraid of the next time I get scared enough to change. And we found your dad, and we got you out of the Thalmor, and now I've got you! Every time I thought I was doing the right thing, I could have done something smarter. But... it still worked. And we're both here now.”

“Oh, Branhucar....”

“And my name. I've got my own name now and no one can ever take it from me again.”

“And... I've trusted you with my name, and my reasons. Who else could I have told? I certainly never thought it would be a barbarian, even among humans, with no appreciation for the might of the Aldmeri... and other Thalmor bullshit. No, Branhucar. If our meeting was a mistake, it was the happiest mistake of my short life.”

“You... you ass,” she laughed.

“I don't have regrets about how things turned out. But... I can't justify Bromjunaar. Honestly, I'm terrified it'll only happen again.”

“Well, all right. But we're already in danger and we're trying to fix it. So, this isn't like Bromjunaar.”

“You and that optimism.”

“What optimism?”

“Or... was it wishful thinking all this time?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

–

Kyndriel's time in the marines had been long ago. And though he swore that his memory was flawless, he had some difficulties as their vessel approached the docks. With some help from the sea dragon, they arrived safely, secured their stolen boat, and stepped onto solid land again.

The Lady of the Sea had more words for them. **“GO NOW TO THE ADAMANTINE TOWER. TELL THEM THAT I SENT YOU TO FULFILL PROPHECY. AND...”**

The ghost of Llyriil Direnni appeared again. “Dragonborn, now that you've arrived, I can finally rest. Forgive me, Lady. Aetherius calls me now.”

“**YOU ARE MORTAL. THAT IS THE WAY OF THINGS. TAKE YOUR REST, OLD FRIEND.”**

“Farewell, travelers. May the light of Aetherius guide you.”

As Llyriil faded, the Lady of the Sea turned back to them. **“DOVAHKIIN. A GREAT TRIAL AWAITS YOU. GO WITHOUT FEAR AND WE WILL ALL SEE CLEAR SKIES AGAIN.”**

And there she left them. Effortlessly, she pushed herself from the sand and slipped back into the Iliac Bay. Her fins rising and falling in the waves were the last they saw of her.

“All right, Aves,” said Kyndriel. “Take us to your lady, or whoever it is that sent for us.”

“You... wouldn't rather get some sleep after all of that?” Aves asked.

“I wouldn't be able to sleep after all of that. And besides, daybreak is close.”

“Are you sure?” asked Verandis. “Judging by what the Lady of the Sea told us, there will be no turning back once we reach the tower. It wouldn't do to face this sleep-deprived.”

“I'm a mer. Any mer worth his salt can keep awake a bit longer than a day.”

“What about Aves and Branhucar?”

Branhucar covered her yawn. “I've had worse.”

“If you're that set on it, fine,” said Aves. “I won't stop you. But, you know I can't guarantee that anyone will be waiting for you this early.”

“Oh, they will be,” Kyndoril said as they started to walk. “If anything of Summerset culture remains here, we'll find the Direnni wide awake, informed of our arrival, and impatient to drag my son into whatever magical stunt they've prepared for him.”

Balfiera reminded Branhucar of both High Rock and an old vision of Summerset. The trees were a mix of oaks and aspens, and the houses were familiar gray stone and wood, but the rooftops of smaller houses curved upward at either end, and doorways and windows were shaded by arched awnings. A lighthouse bore a roof that tapered like a needle. The stone under her feet was a little too smooth, and the fire that lit the lamps along the roadside was a little too gold to be natural flame.

The guards they passed were elves and men alike, their armor a blend of steel and moonstone unlike what she'd seen from the Dominion. There was no mistaking the imagery of a bird in their helms or their pauldrons.

In minutes they'd passed through a gateway that had more in common with High Rock. And then they were in a city nestled in the mountains, towering buildings all around. The streets of the town square were a mosaic of softly colored stones, blues and reds and golds revealed in the lamplight. Somewhere high above was a barrage of color, one window made from illuminated stained glass.

Aves Direnni led them from there, down a wide street, up several carved stone stairways. The tower was close, and so much more vast than Branhucar had imagined any tower being. And the air surrounding it was so strange and magical that it was a wonder that the Direnni, who'd taken so much care to decorate their town, had left the gates and causeways so plain in comparison.

Then she noticed it. A faint rumble of thunder, without lightning, what sounded like miles above. And after a minute of listening, when it had not abated at all, it was apparent that it was a constant thing.

The great wooden doors in the bottom of the tower were guarded, and spears closed in their path as they approached.

“It's me, Aves Direnni,” said their guide. “I'm back with the Dragonborn.”

The guards scrutinized them for a minute, then lowered their weapons. “Welcome back, son of Endalle. You're expected inside.”

Wordlessly, they crossed the threshold.

_The roots of the tower are the roots of a great tree._

_Pull them up, and everything will fall away like so much soil._

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and the image of darkness was replaced by Kyndriel's face. At least she hadn't fallen.

“Stars, I should have let you sleep after all,” he said.

“What happened? Who was talking?”

“Nobody,” said Kyndriel. “You stopped walking and your eyes went funny.”

“That's... weird.”

“Are you all right?”

Branhucar nodded. “I just need to sleep later.”

“If you're sure....”

They walked on, through silvery-white halls and past curious Altmer in quilted silk robes. When she felt comfortable again, Branhucar prodded the wolf for an explanation.

_It wasn't me_ , said the wolf.  _I don't deal in prophetic nonsense._

Prophetic! Should I be worried now?

_You should be cautious._

They passed through more doors and entered a sweeping throne room. And Kyndoril had been right. Waiting close by were a group of Altmer, all in flowing robes and surrounded by an odd air of stillness.

Aves bowed. “Lady Cygnus, I present the Dragonborn Kyndriel and his companions.”

To Branhucar's surprise, Kyndoril and his son bowed as well, and she hurried to copy them. She heard the faintest breath of discomfort from Verandis as he straightened his back again.

“Kyndriel? An ancient name,” said Lady Cygnus. “Who gave it?”

“I did,” he said. “My mother intended it for me, but... there were complications. And were you named for the founder of this island, Lady Cygnus?”

“Ah, a scholar. Yes, I was. And now I rule this isle as she did in the First Era. How did you come here? When we learned that the Lady of the Sea had become enraged, I feared Aves would never return.”

“She's calm now, and she led us here. Well, she and the spirit of Llyriil Direnni. How long have the Direnni been searching for a Dragonborn?”

“I cannot say. But now that you are here....”

Branhucar held her breath and waited for the answer to the moons to finally make itself known.

“Please come with me.”

They parted to let her pass.

“A moment, my lady,” said Kyndriel. “We had our own reasons for coming here. You must have heard of the moons and the skies over High Rock. Is this something any among the Direnni could assist with? Do you have any insight?”

“We do. If you follow me, I will explain on the way.”

Kyndriel frowned with clear worry, but walked after her. Lady Cygnus led them out of that chamber and turned into a circular hall.

“Do you know what the Adamantine Tower is, Dragonborn?” asked Cygnus.

“It's the tower made by the Aedra. Auri-El shot Lorkhan's heart from the top, and the gods decided the fate of Nirn. Now it protects Balfiera from Lorkhan.”

“True. But that protection should extend to the rest of Nirn. On the night that the skies turned red with Lorkhan's fury, there was a terrible disturbance high above. The tower's magic is weakening, and I fear that something works against us. If the Adamantine Tower were to fail, the unthinkable would happen.”

They had begun to descend a long, spiraling stairway. Branhucar's skin stung as though pricked by dozens of invisible needles.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“We're entering the Foundation Vault,” said Cygnus. “A room of the purest silver, from a time before recorded time.”

Branhucar looked at Verandis. He gave her an uncomfortable, sympathetic smile and shrugged.

“It is rare for any beyond the highest Direnni bloodline to enter this place,” Cygnus explained. “When we come of age, we enter this place to reflect on the impossible, the unattainable, and dedicate our lives to the pursuit of new heights. So, we have been responsible for breakthroughs in the study of magic and alchemy throughout history.”

“That's incredible,” said Kyndoril. “When Summerset Altmer turn eighteen, they just get a beautiful glass and quartz bauble symbolizing their worth to society, and if they so much as fart in public they have to smash it and go live in squalor.”

Aves looked mortified. Verandis bit his lip and had started to sweat.

“What? I never heard of that,” said Kyndriel.

“You were conscripted before you came of age,” Kyndoril told him. “But if you ask me, a calian means nothing in this era.”

“Dear gods,” said Branhucar. “No wonder you all act like you've got sticks up your asses.”

Verandis looked at her. His eyes pleaded for her to stop talking.

“Excuse me,” said Kyndriel. “I had a stick up _my_ arse and it's still firmly wedged there, leave my father out of this.”

“Now now, that stick separates us from Tamriel,” said Kyndoril. “Lady Cygnus, I apologize for interrupting. Please continue.”

“Yes,” said Kyndriel. “What's down here that inspires the Direnni to such heights?”

“You will see,” said Lady Cygnus.

They finally reached the bottom of the stairs, and stepped into a room that looked to Branhucar like the inside of a silver ingot, but too bright and smooth and immaculate. Directly across the room was a door, the most intricately fashioned door that she had ever seen. There were so many lines and patterns it was impossible to discern what they represented, if anything. And next to it, set firmly into the wall, was a simple stone of vibrant green.

“The Zero Stone, the source of magic of the Adamantine Tower. And the Argent Aperture,” said Cygnus. “We touch the stone to know its power, and to attempt to open the door. None have ever succeeded. And so many Direnni, at the end of their lives, return for one last attempt. Dragonborn, if you would be so kind....”

“You... want me to try it,” said Kyndriel.

“We've never had the chance to test a Dragonborn. None of our number have ever had such power. Now, we have little choice. These are desperate times. And, you might be able to harness its magic and drive away whatever plagues the tower. ”

“The Lady of the Sea did warn me of a great trial.”

“She did? We should have consulted her ages ago. We might have thwarted this crisis.”

“All I have to do is touch that green stone?”

“The Zero Stone. Yes.”

He folded his arms. “Something about this is... more daunting than I can say. But if we have a chance to fix everything... then so be it.” Kyndriel turned back to them. “If I should meet whatever fate meets the Direnni elders....”

“Don't talk like that.” Kyndoril's voice started to waver. “You're young and strong. If all these mer not even half your age can test the Zero Stone and walk away, so will you.”

“All right. Bran? Don't wait up for me. If I start to take too long, go get some rest. I'm sure Lady Cygnus can accommodate you.”

“If you say so,” said Branhucar. But whatever fear Kyndoril felt, she felt it too. Something was wrong. There was nothing foul about the place, there was no sign that Lady Cygnus would betray them, and yet....

The Lady of the Sea had asked him to undertake his trial with courage, and promised that better things awaited. Dragons did not lie.

“Verandis, Aves, thank you for getting us this far.”

“It was the least I could do,” said Verandis.

Aves shrugged. “Don't mention it.”

“Hang on,” said Branhucar. She stepped closer to Kyndriel, and motioned for him to lean down a bit. And ignoring the rest of the room, she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “There. For luck.”

He responded with a tight hug. It was over too soon. He released her, gave her one more smile, and turned to walk to the Zero Stone.

And as Branhucar wrestled her embarrassment, that she really had just done that in front of Verandis and Aves and Lady Cygnus of all people, Kyndriel reached for the green stone.


	31. Tower of the Gods

Kyndriel had imagined that upon touching the Zero Stone, the Argent Aperture might swing open, revealing a passage to some treasure that the Direnni had coveted for thousands of years.

He was not prepared for the rush of magicka, for his mind to fill with a voice that he could have only dreamed of hearing – a voice that was clear yet resonant and perhaps spoken through a throat of metal.

_W E L C O M E , Kyndriel_

The world went black, for just a moment. And when his sight returned, the room was still made of silver, and the Argent Aperture closed at his back as if he had passed through and shut the door behind him. The Zero Stone was gone.

Lost for ideas, he faced the stairs across the way and stepped forward.

...

Stepped forward.

...

Stepped. Forward!

Kyndriel snarled. He couldn't move. It wasn't that his legs had stopped working. Or that his feet were fastened to the floor. He could lift and lower his feet as he pleased, but the moment he tried to move from the space he occupied, he merely ran in place.

It's not over, he thought in a panic. The trial that Rahrotvahrukt had promised had only begun.

“Gods, help me,” he whispered. “Magnus, god of everything that makes sense, help me.”

It was the tower of the gods, but Magnus had no answer for him. When his legs refused to move forward again, and the room still had not revealed its secrets, he tried again.

“Magnus?”

There was a presence, but no answer.

“Magnus, if you can't help me I'll just... ask Julianos instead.”

Then there was a clear voice. A voice that was softer than he'd imagined, yet hard and irritated, as if he'd interrupted a mage in the middle of some important research.

“What are you doing?” said the voice. “That's a floor. You walk on floors.”

Kyndriel swallowed and tried to think of how to address a god. It had been so easy when Alduin and Auri-El had been there, in the scales.

“Magnus, I thank you three times for coming to my aid,” Kyndriel said. “Please, I can't walk on _this_ floor.”

“What do you mean, you can't walk? You're an animate object with a working skeleton, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Hmph. Let me just.... Ha!”

The floor suddenly filled with an array of glowing spots. Some were connected by thin lines, as one might depict the stars and constellations.

“Are these... real varlines?” Kyndriel asked. “Stars, I've never been to the greater isle. I never thought I'd....”

“Of course they're not varlines,” said Magnus. “Do you see the way the points connect? They should form triangles. If you see triangles, you can walk there.”

There were triangles, as Magnus said. But none were connected to where he stood. Some of them even crossed over other triangles, or stretched up to the ceiling for reasons unknown to him.

“How am I supposed to get through?”

“It doesn't make sense. You should be unhindered by any flaws in this work.”

“Because I'm Dragonborn?”

“Exactly. Your will is yours. You may walk wherever you please. Within reason. There is nothing, _nothing_ that suggests a simple floor should be an impassable barrier! What fool left this mess behind?”

“You did?”

Magnus said nothing, and Kyndriel feared that he'd been abandoned.

“Wait! Magnus! How am I supposed to cross this broken... mesh?”

“Find the holes. Focus your magicka at the corners of each missing triangle.”

“I don't understand. This isn't something a mortal should do.”

“Well it is now. Try not to break anything.”

Magnus left him there, and Kyndriel considered the benefits of sitting down right there and crying until any of the gods took pity on him. There were none, of course, so he swore at the fleeing god instead and focused on those spots.

Slowly, one by one, he grasped with magicka, until he had three that might form the corners of a triangle. That part of the floor glowed white, and he gingerly placed a foot on it.

On to the next. The triangles ought to connect, he thought. Perhaps, if he worked with a side that already existed and found a third spot from there.... Yes, he had another.

That was how Kyndriel crossed the room. One triangle at a time, one step at a time. And when he reached the other end, he looked back and saw the bridge he had created for himself, he thought that the rest of the room looked too bare and unfinished.

Magnus wasn't going to fix it himself. But maybe he could at least push the bounds of where one might walk closer to the walls, so the entire floor would act like a normal floor.

Soon, he could fill the gaps as quickly as he walked.

When his task was complete, the light faded, replaced by the glowing sigil of a triangle. He took a moment to admire it, and then hurried for the stairs.

–

The world darkened and brightened again. And there was the Argent Aperture at his back, no Zero Stone to open it. Kyndriel tested the floor and, to his relief, found it functional.

This floor already had a symbol: a Rose of Archon.

Nothing stopped him as he crossed the room. He reached the stairs again, but turned back at the last minute and looked upon the rose again.

He walked back and knelt to examine the petals. It was a lovely depiction. But... that was beside the point.

“Mara? May we speak?”

Silence, and then....

“Of course, child.”

Kyndriel breathed a sigh of relief, but found himself unprepared for Mara's question.

“Why do you hesitate?”

“I came to this place warned that I'd be tested,” said Kyndriel. “I've just passed Magnus' trial, if that's what it was. If he even intended the room to be... broken.”

“And you want me to test you now?” asked Mara.

“I.... Well. It's not my place to ask. But I came here to fix this tower, and I don't want to do this the wrong way. It seems too easy to just pass through here. I don't want to overlook something crucial. I'm sure you of all Aedra understand.”

“I do. You seem to think yourself unworthy. You fear that you lack the capability to move on, and you ask me if I am right to judge you favorably. But you should ask yourself why you believe some intrinsic worth is required to do what is right.”

Kyndriel's breath caught in his chest. “I....”

“I greeted you with my blessing, the rose beloved on the isles that you call home. I do this because you have come here with a caring heart and devotion to the world you love, in spite of the dangers that you fear. That is enough.”

“I.... Mara, forgive me.”

“You're forgiven, for you would not have faltered so if you had no concern for this world and its people. Go now and let that love guide you. And beware of what awaits.”

–

The room faded in again. This time, the sacred chalice greeted him, and he whispered a prayer to thank Stendarr for his blessing.

He had nearly crossed the room when a voice called to him: “A moment, if you please.”

“Stendarr?”

“I am. You have done well to come this far. In opening the Argent Aperture, you passed the trial of Auri-El. You have earned the favor of Magnus and Mara. I know your deeds and your heart. Come and rest your gentle spirit for a while.”

Kyndriel blinked. There was no refusing a god. He returned to the center of the room, where a padded chair had appeared, and sank gratefully into it.

“Thank you. I think this is the first rest I've taken since I last slept.”

“There's no need to thank me. But do you need to sleep? Would you prefer a bed? I won't rush you out if you're in no shape to proceed.”

“You're right. I should have listened when Aves suggested rest. I'm sure Branhucar could have used it. I shouldn't have denied myself either.”

“A nice, soft bed then.”

“Actually, er... I'm fine in this chair. I shouldn't sleep here. But thank you for offering.”

“Of course. If there's anything you need, you have but to ask.”

He felt the god begin to leave, and called, “Stendarr?”

“Hm?”

“I don't have many chances to speak to the gods. Will you stay for a bit?”

“Certainly. What do you want to know?”

He thought for a moment, and then settled on a topic. “You know that I'm from the Summerset Isles. I've offered my prayers before, but in Alinor they take a... strange view. Forgive me if this is a painful topic, but they speak of some atonement for defending Man in the Dawn. I never thought to question it, until I.... Until recently.”

“They speak a half truth. In the Dawn, after Lorkhan's demise, Trinimac looked upon Men and sentenced them to death. I urged him to spare them, for Lorkhan was defeated, and Men were helpless without him. It took much compromise, but in the end Trinimac relented. Now, there are some mortal Mer who resent this. If I had sat idly by while Trinimac executed his judgment, there would be no Men to make war on them.”

“It still would have been wrong to let all those Men die. And besides, you couldn't have predicted what happened later.”

“I did, and so did Auri-El and Trinimac, hence the compromise. Trinimac could not kill Mankind, but he could make them truly mortal, and his ruling touched all weaker spirits. Auri-El gave stewardship of the ravaged lands to Mer and allowed Men to stay or leave as they wished. But we could not remain, even to protect the new peace. Men resumed their conquests in vengeance. Some think I atone for this by defending Mer. But I extend my protection to all who have need of it.”

Kyndriel looked at the chalice again.

“But you were still right from the start,” he said carefully. “One should never sit idly in the face of a grave threat. And yet here I am, passing precious minutes.”

There was a smile in Stendarr's voice. “Well, well. You're a sharp one.”

“You're trying to keep me here?”

“And now you've seen through it. Excellent.”

Kyndriel stood up and the chair vanished again. “I'm going now. Thank you, Stendarr.”

“Know this, Dragonborn. Mercy has been the guise of bondage throughout your life.”

He remembered Verandis' words. It had seemed so strange, even after they'd reached their agreements, that Verandis had rejected his ideas of honor and debt. Now it was clearer.

“Take and give what you can,” said Stendarr. “But be cautious.”

–

The next room had nothing on its floor, and Kyndriel braced himself.

“Oh, what do we have here?” came a voice. “A bold young thing looking for a challenge!”

“You're not Y'ffre or Xarxes,” said Kyndriel. “Who are you?”

“Why, you know me as Trinimac! Did you enjoy your break with Stendarr? Your talk with Mara? It's all uphill from here.”

Kyndriel reached for his sword, but it wasn't there. His armor was missing too. The tower seemed to have replaced them with ordinary clothes. So instead he widened his stance and raised his fists.

“Come on, then!” Kyndriel did not believe what he was about to say, but said it anyway. “You may be a god, but I'll give you such a–”

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?”

“We're... going to fight, aren't we?”

“Ugh. You young elves. There's more to strength than throwing a punch, kid.”

Kyndriel hesitated to lower his guard in front of Trinimac. “So what do you want with me?”

Four cats appeared on the floor and looked up at him with bright little eyes. And he finally relaxed.

“Stars. They're _adorable_.”

“Hey!” said one of the cats. “Who are you calling adorable?”

“Oh no.”

The cat wiggled its rear.

“Trinimac? What are you doing?”

Another cat spoke: “You think strength is all it takes to get by in this world? Think again!”

The third cat meowed at him. “You must be clever! Cunning! Willing to snatch any opportunity that comes your way!”

The last cat grinned. “And you are clever. But it is time to prove it again. What kind of trial would it be if we just let you walk out?”

Kyndriel watched the cats. “A test of wits, then. Well, that's better than a fight.”

“Of course it is. We are faster than you and we have claws. You wouldn't stand a chance.”

Kyndriel dreaded what Trinimac might do with four – no, sixteen – sets of claws.

“So what's the test?” he asked.

“A riddle!”

He didn't know what to say, but he nodded and waited for the cats to speak.

“I am found where there is life,” said the first cat.

“I am mighty,” said the second, “and I am silent.”

“I am swift and I am patient,” said the third.

“All avoid me,” said the fourth cat. “But everyone will meet me. Who am I?”

He stood there for a minute, testing the possibilities in his mind. And then he looked back down at the cats and said, “Death.”

“Not bad!” said the first cat.

Instead of pointing out how obvious it was, that a god of death would ask such a riddle, Kyndriel asked, “May I pass?”

“There is no reason to keep you any longer. Farewell, kitten.”

The cats vanished, and the sign of a tilted square covered the floor.

–

“Oh! There you are! Took you long enough to get here.”

Kyndriel heard them before he saw the room. There was no sign yet on the floor, and though he knew he wouldn't see anybody, he looked for the source of the voice.

“I've spoken to many Aedra today,” he said. “Who do I have the honor of meeting now?”

“I've been keeping track of your life, you know! What an adventure!”

“Er.... Xarxes?”

“Hello!”

Xarxes was going to be an interesting one.

“So what brought you here?” asked the god. “You must tell me everything.”

Kyndriel wasn't sure what to make of the question. “Apologies, Xarxes, but surely you who record the lives of all knows why I've come here.”

“Of course I know the reasons, but I want to hear _your_ reasons. Why come to the Adamantine Tower?”

“I... did it because things are bad on Nirn and I needed help fixing it.”

“What made things bad?”

He wasn't sure of Xarxes' motives, and he was even less sure that he was comfortable with where the conversation was going. But arguing about such things with a god, when he needed their approval to move on, was probably unwise.

“I killed Elouan. And that... did something to the moons. I didn't find out until later that someone was planning to use him for some ritual, but....”

“Why did you kill Elouan?”

Kyndriel trailed off and looked around the room again. “Because... I didn't have a choice.”

“Well of course you had a choice.”

He opened his mouth to object, but Xarxes cut him off.

“I'm not judging you! That's not what I do. But one of the great things about mortals is that they have endless potential to make anything they want out of their lives. Mortal motivations and their outcomes are fascinating! Sometimes horrible, but mostly fascinating!”

“So... that's why you record our lives?” asked Kyndriel.

“Precisely!”

“So did you choose to become a scribe because you wanted to, or were you already a scribe when you started writing our lives down?”

“Well, you see, it occurred to me when I was talking... to.... Wait a minute, I'm the interviewer here.”

Kyndriel looked at the floor again, found it blank, and wondered just how long Xarxes planned to keep him.

“You killed Elouan because he was a danger to other mortals. And you believed he was, because you have lived through so much and seen what happens when men like him are left in charge. It was the bane of your childhood....”

He saw, through his own eyes, his mother sick in her bed. The faces of other children who mocked his eyes and his nose and the braids his father gave him. The shore of Vulkhel Guard as he prepared to leave for Skywatch.

“And it followed you through your life.”

More memories. Being snatched out of the marines by the Thalmor. Learning the correct answers to questions of disloyal kin. His hesitation, his refusal to be an executioner, and the hail of blows that followed.

The fear in the eyes of the blacksmith's apprentice, as she waited for someone to save her.

The anger in her eyes as she urged him to save himself.

“Mortals aren't isolated! Another great thing about mortals is that the bonds they forge can reshape their entire lives.”

He saw an Atmoran woman, a warrior of some stature judging from the decoration of her armor, beside a Falmer in the heavy robes of a dragon priest. The aurora danced in the night sky.

His parents sitting by the fire during a happier time in Chorrol. His mother was wrapped in a blanket; his father had just bought it for her with the few coins he'd saved away.

His mother singing to him in words he didn't know, but understood.

His father teaching him to read old prayers and teachings of the Aedra, with special, secret books that they were never going to tell the Divine Prosecution or anyone else about.

A human he never should have cared about: his charge, his rescuer, his ally, his friend.

“The bonds of friendship and love are the best motivator of mortalkind.”

Kyndriel opened his eyes and saw, glowing on the floor, the image of a book.

“Do not fear the next chapter,” said Xarxes. “Should something go wrong, you may return to this moment.”

–

By his count, few Aedra remained. As the next room faded into his sight, and the symbol of an anvil appeared on the floor, he called to whoever awaited him.

“I'm here now.”

And another voice answered him. “I started to fear we'd never meet. I am Xen.”

One of the original Eight, as Kyndriel remembered from his childhood. From a time before he had fallen from grace, and the hero-god Syrabane claimed his place in the temples of Summerset.

“I've spoken to your brother, Stendarr,” Kyndriel told him. “You both defended Men in the Dawn, right?”

“We did,” said Xen. “As some remember, Stendarr was Lorkhan's shield-bearer. He survived the onslaught of our brethren. I did not. I was cast into the Void, away from the battle, as punishment for my choice. And I was left to wait for Lorkhan, who found me and repaid my sacrifice.”

“And so you guard your bones in Sovngarde.”

“Out of all his realms, yes. And I welcomed those Men who died alongside me, for their service to Lorkhan.”

“Why serve Lorkhan at all?” Kyndriel asked. “You or your brother?”

“When the first of mortals walked on Nirn, I followed them and observed their labors. So many struggled, despite their best efforts. Lorkhan proposed that we lead them to better lands where they would thrive. Stendarr and I agreed.”

“Oh, I see where this is going....”

“It was a trick. He convinced the young Men that Elves were to blame for their hardships and led them into their first war. It was too late for us to stop it. We could do nothing but try to shield them from the wrath of the others.”

“That's... terrible.”

“That is the price I paid for my folly. Just as Lorkhan is ever hungry, I am always waiting.”

“I'll put in a word for you with the other gods later, if it helps.”

“I accepted my place long ago. And now you must embrace yours. Hurry. Your task is nearly at its end.”

–

A bow and a shield of silvery-white floated in the center of the next room. If he approached, if he dared to take them, they would be in easy reach.

“What are you waiting for?”

Kyndriel looked at the floor and saw the image of a lyre.

“Y'ffre?”

“I _am_ Y'ffre! And you're you! Who else could have come this far? Now take your things and get ready to fight!”

“My things?”

He approached and reached out with trembling fingers. The shield was solid and heavy, yet so easy to lift. And the bow! It fit comfortably in his hand. The weight of the string was perfect, though he had no arrow... until he drew it.

“Y'ffre? I.... But... why do you...?”

“Don't worry about it! Go!”

With the bow and shield in his hands, he dashed for the next staircase.

–

Kyndriel stood at the top of the Adamantine Tower. The heavens stretched above, the light of dawn shielded by curtains of green and violet.

It should have been frigid. Wind should have blown him off. It should have been impossible to breathe. And yet....

He stepped forward, and found his gait had changed to one suiting a giant bird. Again, his arms were wings, a tail balanced his massive size, and his mouth was a beak.

His heart was a drum.

There was a thundering roar, as something manifested in the air around him. He took off in surprise, and circled the top of the tower while red mist swirled and formed a shape. First a man. Then a giant. And as the shade grew further into the skies, a hole appeared in its center.

It hadn't been _his_ heart.

The shade of Lorkhan lashed out, and he dove to avoid its hand. Just before he pulled back up, he saw little lights, far below....

He drew level with the shade again, and the aurora was gone. The skies were red. The sun had vanished. The tower shook, there wasn't much time....

With a cry, Kyndriel flew at the shade and opened his jaws. Ice sprayed from his mouth. And the shade did not so much as flinch.

He circled again and hurled himself talons-first. His feet burned as though scalded, but Lorkhan did not have flesh to tear, or a body to snatch and throw to the earth.

The skies themselves trembled....

He had the bow – how was a dragon meant to use it? Yet, as he hovered there and wished for it, it appeared before him, large enough for a dragon to grasp. It seemed foolish, clumsy even. But he didn't need to touch it.

The bow drew at his thought. And as the earth shook and fire began to rain from the sky, he took aim at the hole in Lorkhan's chest, and loosed a single arrow.

The arrow pierced Nothing.


	32. Lorkhan's Gambit

Emptiness and wholeness.

Kyndriel stood upon Nothing, in a great Void. Around him danced many single things, all indescribable, but indisputably real. So many tiny truths, meaningless alone. But they formed threads, threads linked together by the emptiness that in its own way was another reality, merely the reality of what wasn't. Threads became statements that might have been meaningful, if only he knew how to interpret them.

“What are you?” he asked.

The Void replied with a question of its own. But the sound? Image? Feeling? It was impossible to make sense of it. Truth and Falsehood continued their strange work.

As his confusion grew, a bolt of light flashed across the Void. Endless Truth and Falsehood condensed, replaced by runes and numerals. They still made no sense, not in any system of writing he knew.

“Magnus,” Kyndriel whispered. “I thank you three and five times. Please don't go yet.”

Chaotic noise gave way to a Voice, one that spoke not to him, but to instinct.

AL WAHL LEIN?

Whatever the Voice was, it was greater than anything he had ever faced, and far more dangerous.

“No,” said Kyndriel. “I live on this world. I don't want to remake it.”

It, whatever it was, accepted his answer. But its presence was replaced by a song that should not have been in the Void.

Images of various points in Time appeared before him. His farewell to Branhucar. Their meeting with Ondolemar in Wayrest. The Lady of the Sea and her fury. Kyndoril, asleep yet at work in the ruins of a temple. On and on it went. Branhucar, a prisoner, in the dungeons of Northpoint.

He let the memories float by. His time in Skyrim. His time in Chorrol, backwards, from his shameful departure, to the beatings, to the executions, to so many families fleeing. Secret encounters with his fellows. Training. His arrival in the city.

His younger self ventured backward to Auridon, to the academy....

TIID KRENT

“What? There was more before that!”

TIID KRENT

“I wasn't always Thalmor!”

TIID KRENT

“I was a marine! I was a child!”

TIID KRENT

His young face, his mask of forced apathy, stared back, frozen in Time. His quiet grief for his family, his shameful obedience to the Crown, were as far as the Void was willing to take him.

“Please! That's not me. There was so much more than this....”

AL WAHL LEIN?

“No! How did Time break? Where did it all go?”

The images reordered themselves, until he gazed instead at a Nord woman with a more Colovian stature, dark eyes piercing through stilled Time and driving fear into his heart.

“But... it's... that thing can't be....”

He watched Time tell its story, backwards, as she ventured through another Skyrim with a mer so uncannily familiar to him. But her story began after Time's sundering.

“Show me the closest thing to the damage.”

It must have been Alinor. The fabled city nestled against the mountainside, above the western shore, its quartz and glass a rainbow of color. High Aldarch Varlaris, from his temple high in the city, watched as a noble mer departed in shame from the holy grounds. His brief banishment from the Adasel was not kind, but it was necessary. Silabaene had already strayed too close to the path of his cursed ancestors. Another step, and he would fall and join Battlereeve Naarifin in Oblivion.

The nobility were so close to the holiest of ancestors, and yet so ensnared by their own mortal desires that they could not grasp divine will. Perhaps the Dragon's return would remind them of their place.

Kyndriel pushed away Varlaris' memories, and then longed for the sight of Alinor again as the Void and all its strings faded back into his vision.

“Why am I seeing this?”

TIID KRENT

“Lorkhan is dead. Why am I here?”

TIID KRENT

The memory of the shade, how it had withered when struck by his arrow, returned to his mind.

“But he didn't succeed. Show me Balfiera. High Rock.”

He regretted it at once. He would have screamed, but his lungs and throat could not make a sound. The world was ashen, cracked and bleeding fire under a red-gray sky. The moons lit the corpse of Nirn.

Everything had ended. Branhucar, Kyndoril, every soul he had ever met was already gone. The Void would consume them all soon enough.

In his terror, he managed one more prayer. “Mara... help.... Please....”

Everything was silent in the Void. Mara did not come.

Instead, there were footsteps, heavier than iron, each a thundering drumbeat. Kyndriel steeled himself and turned, eyes raised up to the giant figure he would surely face....

“Mara sent me.”

The voice came from somewhere around his knees.

A Fox stood there, black fur shining bright in the Void, eyes glowing like cold stars. He gave a dog-like wag of his tail. Kyndriel swallowed.

“You're scared of me because you're an elf,” said the Fox. “And more than a bit riled because you're you. Relax. I'm a friend of Mara. She sent me.”

“I... thought I killed you.”

“I've been dead for thousands of years, but I didn't go anywhere.”

If this was Lorkhan, and he seemed to be, his words were not as grand and wrathful as he'd imagined. The Lorkhan in his father's dreams had been a terrible presence. The Fox before him had stricken him with fear... until he had spoken.

No. The Fox was a trickster. Lorkhan's was the way of guile and cleverness.

“Wasn't Elouan one of yours?” Kyndriel asked.

“Elouan? That would-be Pelinal? He wasn't mine. Just another man who thought he could be Talos. No. Better than Talos. And he wasn't.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Like I told you, Mara sent me.” Lorkhan sat on his haunches. “You have no idea what it's like. You have never heard a thousand prayers at once. 'Send your wrath, Talos!' 'Talos preserve us!' 'Talos guide me!' Hjalti was a mistake! And Elouan's Lions! The worst! Don't even ask!”

Kyndriel slowly lowered himself to sit in front of the Fox. “I've met that cult and frankly I don't care for them either.”

“I suppose... I should thank you,” said the Fox. “Did it hurt, to be forced into your true form?”

“My... true form?”

“When that false priest tried to tear your soul apart. To separate Man and Elf. You instead became a Dragon.”

“I.... I don't remember. Being a dragon is strange, but not unnatural. I... wouldn't call it my true form. I am Kyndriel. A mortal.”

“Ha. Well, it was agony,” said the Fox. “And here I am, thanking... a mortal.”

“Lorkhan, you're... being casual for a g... for a....”

The Fox laughed. His teeth were white. “What would I get from being your nightmares? I'm here to make an alliance. What do you say, elf?"

“Depends,” said Kyndriel. “Why did Mara send you? And why did you answer?”

“The gods pray too, did you know that? Sometimes I hear a soft voice, asking for protection instead of war, an end to starvation, and all that. And I thought, if I rule war and famine, why can't I give mortals a break from these things? How could I say no to that bleeding heart?”

“You aren't the Lorkhan that I imagined....”

“And I am still Lorkhan. Get over it, elf.”

“That sounds more like it, but....”

“You don't believe me, do you?”

Before Kyndriel could answer, the little Fox was replaced by a mighty figure, one pale against the darkness, bleeding heavily from a hole torn out of the chest. Every memory of pain and death came screaming back into his mind.

The screaming was his own. The Fox sat, watching, and waited for him to calm himself.

“D-Don't do that again, you _horrid_ little–”

The Fox placed a paw on his leg. Its weight was enormous, for a paw. “Apology accepted. Now stop that. You've got a job to do.”

–

“In the beginning, the only thing that existed was the battle between Anu and Padomay. While they fought, other souls were born into the chaos. Anu and Padomay gave birth to spirits you call the Aedra and Daedra. Children of Padomay cannot create, they can only take. But I had plans! And I needed the children of Anu.”

Kyndriel followed as Lorkhan trotted through darkness, on a path he couldn't see. “You tricked them, didn't you?”

“I had to! They didn't trust me. But they had all seen what happened when Anu and Padomay battled. Whole worlds were born and eaten. They could do better than them. They could save themselves and all the weaker souls too. All they had to do was shed a little, just like they had been shed from the two-headed beast.”

“So which part was the lie?”

“They thought I would shed. I did not. Children of Padomay cannot create. I remained whole. They were diminished.”

“So they took your heart.”

“They had to. I could not have torn it out myself.”

“Are you joking? You led Men to war because you wanted to die?”

“I cannot die. Neither can the children of Anu.”

Kyndriel saw in his mind the image of a Tower, rising above the sea, stretching up into the heavens. Innumerable stars dotted the sky. The moons drifted in the distance.

“My prison,” said Lorkhan. “But a necessary one. My heart is the heart of the world. My blood is the fire that warms it. My body shields Nirn from interlopers. And my soul binds Nirn in Existence as the Tower binds my soul to Nirn.”

“So Elouan broke your chains. And now the world has ended. All we can do is wait for Padomay.”

“Padomay is not the only one who can devour a world.”

“Or Alduin. But Alduin... seemed perfectly fine with this world. He said he'd... eaten stray worlds and that Time would be fixed soon.”

Lorkhan huffed. “Kyndriel. Why do you _think_ you're here?”

“Because I used the Zero Stone and killed you?”

Lorkhan's starlight eyes squinted up at him. “You. You are as dense as your father. The world can be restored.”

Kyndriel's heart thudded as he gazed at Lorkhan. He could almost see himself among them once more – the Direnni, his allies, his friends and his family. A world unwounded and green.

“It will not be quite what you expect,” Lorkhan warned him. “But it will be your world. And their world. There's a lot left to work with. So I need you, for once in your life, to trust in yourself. Mend Time.”

“How do I do that?”

“You have a Voice, don't you?”

He did. “But how can I...?”

Lorkhan lifted a paw and struck against invisible ground. Once. Then twice. The impacts echoed like distant thunder.

Kyndriel understood. He knew that rhythm, and a melody to match. He knew it by heart, in a memory of his mother's voice. A lullaby that he should not have remembered, in a language that should have been impossible for a mortal throat.

The beating of the Doom-Drum accompanied his Song.


	33. Pocket Guide to Tamriel

Pocket Guide to Tamriel

By Tutorius Antabolis

The Dragon Break of 202 began and ended in the blink of an eye and left the people of Tamriel doubting their own memories. At the behest of the Elder Council, I have gathered the findings of our diplomatic parties, who bravely ventured throughout our lost Empire in search of answers. May the Divines guide my hand.

Cyrodiil

Let us begin at home, in the lands of Saint Alessia herself. Cyrodiil now contends with heat and humidity that once limited itself to the southern counties. The land itself has changed to match. Dense forests threaten the farmlands of the West Weald and Gold Coast, and great beasts of Valenwood and Elsweyr prowl them.

As they sought the cause of this shift, our battlemages were harried by minotaurs and centaurs speaking in tongues that even our best diplomats could not understand. The entire group would have been lost if not for the arrival of a party of elven archers, but these reportedly refused to acknowledge us once the beasts were driven off. May Akatosh protect us in these strange times.

Morrowind

The Great Houses are reluctant to speak with us, but it is apparent that some conflict is occurring within the temples of Morrowind. The ever-patient Ashlanders have taken in exiles who claim to revere gods of the Aldmeri. Whether this change of faith is a consequence of the Red Year or unknown Thalmor influence, we cannot say.

As for Red Mountain, its fury has finally cooled. No longer does ash fall upon the people of Blacklight, or Ebonheart, or Raven Rock. It may yet be safe for civilization to return to Vvardenfell, and perhaps even thrive as it once did under our banner.

Black Marsh

The Argonians don't seem to be particularly troubled by recent events.

Hammerfell

The people of Hammerfell still resent Cyrodiil for the Empire's acceptance of the White-Gold Concordat, but our envoys were welcomed in Sentinel due to mutual curiosity surrounding the Dragon Break. According to their scholars and scribes, there was a moment when the sky lit up with green and gold light before the public collectively experienced dual, conflicting memories of the last few years. According to rumor, during this time a priest residing in the eastern highlands reported a dream of a great serpent shedding its skin to reveal scales that were brighter and more beautiful than any it had ever worn before.

The Orcs of the Dragontail Mountains had no such rumors for us, but they were surprisingly hospitable and their mages equally fascinated by the turn of events.

Skyrim

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak succeeded in removing Skyrim from the Empire, when his rebellion and the demands of the Dominion forced us to withdraw. Skyrim as a nation remains torn between the West and East. Jarl Elisif commands the western holds, and she reassured our envoys that it was once again safe to visit Windhelm. There, we were greeted by a giant of a woman who claimed to be Jarl Sigrun.

Apparently, Sigrun was preoccupied by some business involving dragons before she heard the Nord god Alduin's roar. She then decided to seek out Ulfric and challenge him for his throne. When Ulfric was dead, Sigrun quickly negotiated a new treaty with Elisif and the Thalmor, and the Dominion simply left Skyrim to its own affairs.

As for the land, Skyrim's climate has grown more temperate. The famous Fall Forest is green as the southern Jerall foothills, the old plains of Whiterun are lush and forested, and the snows come and thaw with winter. The beasts have taken well to the changes; great elk and smaller deer that glow like magefire have been spotted roaming the wilds, and greater cats and wolves matching their odd coloration have been caught by hunters.

The Reach

The Reachmen once asked us for our support in establishing the eastern Druadach Mountains as a self-ruled province. Ulfric Stormcloak's conquest and despotic rule of the Reach came at a time when the armies of the Empire could not respond with the force that the situation demanded. Markarth now reels from many more misfortunes: Daedric curses, the assaults of the Forsworn, the destruction of ancient dwarven infrastructure, and ironically, spiders.

In a more recent calamity, an Oblivion gate opened within the city and a horde of dremora emerged to demand Markarth's finest tea as tribute. The ruling Nord families have lost hope of regaining control of the city, and Jarl Elisif is considering negotiations with the Reachmen.

High Rock

While we were concerned that the Thalmor had the ears of High Rock's kings and queens, we were ignorant of another threat: rogue nobility who shared our distrust of the Dominion, but had no faith in the Empire to protect their lands from Aldmeri aggression. Unlike the Stormcloak rebels to their east, the Bretons who terrorized their own countrymen did so from the shadows, while their lords plotted the downfall of Wayrest and Daggerfall from their own keeps.

A joint investigation between Thalmor intelligence and Queen Barynia's agents traced the source of this treason back to Alcaire. However, they found Duke Elouan dead on his throne, drained of all blood but lacking apparent wounds. His self-styled Lions have all but disappeared, and the few bold enough to strike alone have met a swift end.

Elsweyr

The Khajiiti peoples who have been occupied for the last century no longer seem to fear their Aldmeri masters, and the Thalmor have made themselves scarce in Anequina and Pelletine. Yet we have heard nothing of an uprising or any dissolution of the Dominion. Therefore, continued caution is advised.

Like us, the Khajiit are experiencing stronger heat and there are fears that the desert will encroach on the more fertile lands surrounding Tenmar Forest. But the Khajiit are nothing if not adaptable, and they are confident that Khenarthi will see them through.

Valenwood

Unsurprisingly, the Thalmor still watch over the greater cities of the forest: Silvenar, Greenheart, and Elden Root. Their interest of course would lie in the heirs of the Camoran dynasty. But if elven politics are obscure, Wood Elves are the most confounding and secretive of them all. They invite us to drink and dance with them and participate in all manner of jokes, but they will tell us nothing of the state of Valenwood. All we know is that their hunters have their hands full dealing with new magical beasts that prowl their woods.

Alinor

We were not permitted to bring our inquiries to Alinor. We instead had to deal with a Thalmor ambassador in Elden Root and he was reluctant to speak. Suffice to say, we know nothing of the state of the Summerset Isles, and just as before, it may be decades before we learn anything new regarding the High Elves and their Dominion.

The Fate of the Empire

With the secession of Skyrim and the instability in High Rock, the Empire has been reduced to the lands of Colovia and Nibenay. The sudden death of Emperor Titus Mede II could not have come at a more dire time. The eyes of Tamriel are upon us.

As the Elder Council has requested, I have compiled the rumors of a Dragonborn. As Weynon Priory once predicted, the Dragonborn passed through Skyrim during the early days of the dragon crisis. This we learned from Jarl Sigrun, who offered that the Dragonborn had sailed west. She would tell us nothing more and angered when pressed.

Despite her unwillingness to divulge the Dragonborn's identity, Jarl Sigrun's information on his whereabouts had truth to it. All throughout High Rock there were rumors of a Dragonborn. Some say he was a vagrant and an outlaw. Others claim to have witnessed heroics. When last sighted, he showed interest in the isle of Balfiera, and the timing coincided with the Dragon Break and what was witnessed over the skies of Hammerfell.

The Direnni of Balfiera were harder to contact, and they told us only that the Dragonborn and his entire company disappeared from the Adamantine Tower mere moments after the Dragonborn undertook a ritual within the tower's depths.

Like Jarl Sigrun, the Thalmor know the identity of the Dragonborn, but they refuse to reveal his name or even his race. Unhelpfully, we have been advised to look for a Falmer who speaks Common Tamrielic.

In a last attempt to determine the whereabouts of the Dragonborn, we have consulted with the Order of the Ancestor Moth. Their visions are numerous and confusing: a prism, a sunflower, and a mudcrab grasping a fishing line.


	34. The Time Meld

The first thing that Branhucar noticed was the cold. She was lying on something hard. A stone floor it seemed.

The second thing was that she was, for some reason, completely naked, and judging by the voices around her absolutely nobody was happy about it.

Branhucar opened her eyes just in time to see a blanket fly at her, and as she wrapped it around herself she looked around. There were elves. A dozen elves, in robes of shimmering silk, with silver and gold stars embroidered around their shoulders. All staring with wonder or disgust.

Then she heard her father-by-Mara speak.

“Well, it's been years since I last had this dream.”

Branhucar averted her eyes as one of the mages conjured another blanket.

“Ah! Thank you!” said Kyndoril. “Normally I endure this whole nightmare completely nude.”

Kyndriel stood nearby, already covered from the waist down, silent in thought. Branhucar poked him on the arm to get his attention, and he looked down as if surprised.

The last time she had seen that look on his face... they had been standing in a vault of silver, dreading whatever waited beyond a door and its key.

Why were they standing in a room of marble and wood, surrounded by unfamiliar elves? How? She had no memory of making her way there, and the longer she searched her mind, the more confusing it was.

They had been in a vault beneath the Adamantine Tower. The Direnni had guided them there.

And yet they had been in Cyrodiil for so long.

Branhucar frowned at him. “Kyn?”

“It's really you,” he whispered, taking one of her hands in both of his. The vine markings glowed faintly. “You're still you....”

The markings. Y'ffre's protection, received at a Wyrd tree deep in the woods in High Rock. Proof that her memories of Verandis and Aves, Galen, Alcaire, Wayrest, Northpoint were from a life that she had really lived.

So why did she recognize the robes of the sapiarchs surrounding them? Why had she ever been in Cyrodiil, waiting on Thalmor justiciars and scholars of Alinor?

High Rock was the clearest thing in her mind. The evidence of her life stretched all over her body, down her limbs, glowing like the stars. And yet....

Everything that made sense ended under the Adamantine Tower.

“Kyn.... You made another tusking Dragon Break, didn't you.”

“No! Everything is fixed now,” whispered Kyndriel.

“What in Oblivion are you talking about?”

“I'll explain later, I promise.”

Magicka filled the air. One of the sapiarchs had created a portal in front of Kyndoril. He stepped through, and it vanished.

“Wait!” said Branhucar. “Where are we? Where did you send him?”

A second portal appeared, and the sapiarch who had conjured it fixed her with the stare of someone who had been awake for far too long.

“Go and see for yourself,” he said.

There was nothing else to do but trust that the portal didn't lead to anything too terrible.

–

It was a small room made of brick, lit by a large orange crystal in a cage nailed into the wall. The only way out was a door of gleaming steel and bars too high for her to look through. Conjured blanket gone, Branhucar found breeches and a simple woolen robe waiting for her on a bed. Both were too long, but that was the least of her problems.

“A bed!” she heard Kyndoril exclaim from another cell. “A real bed!”

“We're in jail and all you can think about is the bed?” Kyndriel answered.

Branhucar had to agree with him. Waking up buck naked, surrounded by sapiarchs, in what was likely an off-limits area and landing in jail for it was more than a little worrying.

But Kyndoril was not at all discouraged. “I have been in so many jails that lack the most basic of accommodations!”

“It's still a jail!”

And, now that she thought about it, nobody even knew they were there except for the sapiarchs.

“And what have we learned about jail?” said Kyndoril, in the manner of someone asking a small child if they understood a mistake.

Nobody had yelled at them to shut up so far. Either they were alone, or their fellow prisoners had decided to stay out of it. Or they had a guard listening to their every word.

“Being self-sacrificing is bad for your health?” said Kyndriel.

Kyndoril said nothing.

“Father?”

“Well, with luck there will be no need for that.”

“So what now?” called Branhucar, unable to stay silent any longer.

“We wait!” said Kyndoril. “And hope to understand our situation by the day's end.”

–

Their jailers had not housed them together. That was smart of them, thought Branhucar. They couldn't plan their escape so easily. But it made things boring, and spending the day shouting through the bars would be neither fun nor wise.

What she did have was a book. Written in Altmeris, it was impossible for her to understand, but she amused herself reading by culanda light, one unknown word at a time. Not that she could read the words at all. For all the time she had spent among elves, elvish letters were still a mystery to her.

After several minutes, she turned to a full page illustration: A golden dragon bearing a Dunmer, a human child, and a dog on its back. The dragon circled above a castle, where an angry man shook his fist at the sky, his nakedness barely concealed by the scenery.

She remembered a story Kyndoril had told them once, in Rivenspire, while they waited for the Thalmor to lose interest in them.

“I think I've got a copy of _King Edward_ in here!” she called.

“Really!” said Kyndriel. “I've got... ah... a history of the Summerset Isles.... I think.”

Kyndoril had nothing to say, and Branhucar guessed he was taking a nap to pass the time.

“What do you mean, you think?” asked Branhucar. “You know how to read this.”

“It's just... not quite what I expected. And what do you mean, _I_ know how to read this? How do you know it's _King Edward_ if you can't read Altmeris?”

“Well, it's got pictures of scenes from _King Edward_.”

“Fair enough.”

Branhucar gave up on words and carefully turned each page in search of more art. She found scenes of the Dunmer hero Moraelyn with Aliera. The heroes watching a deer. Moraelyn speaking to a golden dragon. Aliera in battle with a robber baron. A man pleading with a woman in blue. But there was a detail she did not remember; Mara held a knotted cord and a large flower in her hands. Her eyes glowed gold.

Kyndoril's voice suddenly rang nearby.

“I have news!” he said. “We are in the city of King's Haven, on the northern coast of Summerset.”

“What?” said Kyndriel. “How did you learn this?”

“I went for a walk.”

“You what?!”

“What are you doing back here?” asked Branhucar.

“Things were a bit political outside,” said Kyndoril. “Best to stay out of it.”

–

Branhucar, in her dreams, returned to Skyrim.

She roamed the tundra in the light leather and fur, safe from the teeth of hungry wolves and skeevers. Ghorza had been reluctant to send her on her errand without proper orichalcum plate. The Orcish dagger at her belt was her apology and faith in her apprentice.

The Thalmor had known something about her. She faced the justiciar in the belly of Ustengrav. Her werewolf shape was enough to send him running.

They met again in the embassy, moments after she crept away from the party. He was off-duty, out of his armor, but he was Thalmor still. Her heart raced as she looked into his green eyes. She knew those eyes.

He abandoned his post. Followed her across Skyrim, into the dark heart of Blackreach, into the skies on the back of a red dragon.

And as they stood in Sovngarde, before Alduin, she realized at last that everything was wrong.

The world faded to white.

–

“Hey, you.”

Branhucar groaned and opened her eyes. The warm light of the culanda stone greeted her.

“You're finally awake!”

Branhucar cursed those words and sat up to see who had disturbed her sleep. It was a Nord. A young, dark-haired Nord woman in ornate moonstone-steel armor.

A Nord?

“Where are we?” Branhucar asked.

“This is King's Haven. So, I heard you're in jail for showing up naked in the Crystal Tower?”

“Is... that where we were?” Something wasn't right. “But... I was told the Crystal Tower was... gone.”

“You really have no idea what happened.”

“No?”

“Well, the sapiarchs don't know either. All they could tell us is that they saw a green light and there you three were, stark naked and unconscious. And that's where I come in.”

“I... uh... don't take this the wrong way,” said Branhucar. “But... I was told humans weren't allowed in Alinor. At all.”

The Nord smiled. “That was true, once.”

Once? How long ago was once?

“What is the year?” Branhucar asked.

“Two-hundred and five.”

Five?

“So, one of you asked to speak to the canonreeve,” the Nord continued. “Instead of a military magistrate. But the canonreeve can't be bothered, and my husband is busy, as usual. That means dealing with you three became my job. And I think you're just as confused as the rest of us.”

“Who are you?” Branhucar asked.

“Wyrenna.” The Nord offered a hand. “Come on, you look like you need better clothes and a good drink.”

  
  


END


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